


Never the Fall that Kills You

by mariana_oconnor



Series: Clint Barton Bingo 2020 [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Angel Bucky Barnes, Angel Steve Rogers, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Case Fic, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Bingo, Clint's bad childhood, FBI Agent Clint Barton, FBI Agent Natasha Romanov, Hellhounds, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Beta Read, Paranormal Investigators, Parent Bucky Barnes, Spontaneous bovine combustion, Warning: phenomenal cosmic powers should not be kept within reach of children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Strange things start happening in a small town after a meteor falls nearby. Special agents Barton and Romanov are sent to check it out. While they're there, Clint meets a stranger who remembers nothing before the meteor fell, except that his name is Bucky and someone is after him.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Clint Barton Bingo 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716733
Comments: 60
Kudos: 271
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	1. Catch a Falling Star

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much influenced by The X Files and Supernatural, just so you know what you're getting yourself into. Also, unbetaed, because I ran out of time, as per usual. This was originally written for last year's Bucky Barnes Bingo, but I reeeeaaaally ran out of time on that one. That's even where the title comes from.
> 
> Written for the Clint Barton Bingo squares:  
> Chapter 1 - E5 Police (they're FBI, but it still counts)  
> Chapter 2 - B3 Nightmares  
> Chapter 3 - A2 First Kiss  
> Chapter 4 - B4 Wanda Maximoff  
> Chapter 5 - C3 Free Space

He hurtles downwards and he burns like he has never felt before, his skin scorching as he falls; it feels like he has always been falling, and yet it has only been seconds. The pain in his back is now almost overwhelmed by the pain everywhere else, but not quite, the ragged torn edge of what had once been his wing is still there when he things about it, a gaping wound that throbs as the muscles of his back try to move bones that are no longer attached to him, as his wings strive desperately to beat, to stop this burning freefall as he is ripped out of one realm and cast down into another.

But all of it, all of it is lost to the thought of the betrayal, the internal pain that sings out in his mind at the very idea of it. The fact that he can no longer do anything about it. He cannot save anyone now. He has only one option left to him, so he takes the blue light he clutches to his chest and throws it, hurls it out into the darkness and hopes. He prays, for the first time in centuries, for mercy.

He is falling.

He hits the ground with the force of a meteorite. The impact is an explosion. The world shakes around him, the blast ripping outwards, and he feels his body take the brunt of it, his head snapping back to smash against the ground. The world goes black.

*

“Welcome to Boredom, Nowhere, population: who cares,” Clint says, kicking the car door closed. Natasha gives him a hard look, then pointedly drops her gaze to the dusty footprint on the car door. “It’ll wash, Nat.”

“We wouldn’t have to get it washed if you didn’t insist on-”

“At least the door’s still attached, better than last time, right?” Clint interrupts with a grin. Natasha concedes the point. Or she rolls her eyes, anyway, which is sort of the same thing. Clint thinks it’s the same thing.

Last time, Clint had had to break the door off in a high speed car chase. It had one hundred percent been necessary, no matter what Natasha says. She’s got that look on her face again, the one she gets when she thinks he’s being a dick, so Clint sighs and tries to relax. He’s just fed up. He’d thought, back when Coulson tapped him for the taskforce, that it would be exciting. He’d known a few paras back at the circus, he’d known they didn’t just exist in young adult novels. But it’s been two years now and the closest they’ve come to an actual real life paranormal phenomena was that girl who made fire alarms go off. That was it. She didn’t even have cool fire powers, just… made fire alarms go off.

And they’re out again, looking for something that probably is just a fucking meteor. Rocks fall from space sometimes, it’s pretty cool, but it’s not magic.

“Since the meteor fell two weeks ago, there have been reports of unusual activity,” Natasha reminds him and Clint rolls his eyes.

“A two-headed snake someone claims to have seen,” Clint tells her. “And people reporting ‘weird behavior’.” The air quotes make Natasha roll her eyes with a sigh.

“An epidemic of nightmares,” she says. “Not to mention one person was hospitalised and two people have gone missing. Also, a family to the south of town has reported hearing mysterious whispers.”

“It’s the corn,” Clint tells her. “I grew up in Iowa, trust me: it was the corn.”

Clint isn’t saying that corn is not a paranormal phenomenon in its own right, but he is saying it’s one that he doesn’t want to have to deal with.

“We’re in the wrong area for corn,” Natasha tells him. “How about we go out to the meteor site and actually do our jobs before we give up,” Natasha suggests. Clint sighs, but he shrugs.

“Coffee first,” he tells her. “Coffee first, then work. I am not caffeinated enough to be professional.” Natasha rolls her eyes, but nods. 

“I’m not sure there’s that much caffeine in the universe,” Natasha says, her face never twitching. Clint gives her the finger, but she seems to be heading towards a place that looks like it might sell coffee, so he’s willing to forgive and forget.

The cricks in his neck appear to have taken up permanent residence as he rolls it painfully from side to side. Car journeys are a bitch, especially in a tub like that one.

The door to the diner lets out a discordant jing-a-ling-a-ling as they step through the door and everyone in the place turns to look at them. He can practically feel the suspicion being shot their way. No one likes the feds, it’s a universal constant. He puts on his brightest smile and waves at the gathering of elderly locals by the door.

“Afternoon,” he says. Natasha’s slipped into her best ‘lovely young lady’ persona as she heads to the counter.

The badge on the guy’s shirt says ‘howdy, my name’s Jake!’ in a gratingly upbeat font. Clint wasn’t even aware that fonts could convey that much pep and enthusiasm. It’s almost giving him a headache just looking at it, although that could be the fact he’s been in a car for hours.

“Hi there! What can I get for you?” Jake asks, with about as much enthusiasm as a person about to get bitten by a mosquito. Natasha surges forwards. Things always work out better when she takes the lead on these sort of things.

“Hi Jake. My partner and I just got into town and he’s useless without his coffee, think we could get a couple cups to go?” Natasha asks, sweet as pie.

“Sure thing,” Jake says. “Mind me asking what you’re here for? We don’t see folks like you very often.”

“Following up on some enquiries,” Natasha says as Clint pulls himself up onto one of the stools by the counter and loosens his tie even more than it already is. Every person in that diner is watching them right now. He thought he’d given up being the star of the show when he left the circus. He resists the urge to take a bow.

“I’m Agent Romanoff, this is Agent Barton. We’ve been sent to look into the meteor strike you guys had a couple weeks back,” Natasha continues. As Jake turns to him, Clint lifts his badge with a weary hand. Luckily, no one tends to look close enough to see what department they’re actually from. The Paranormal Investigation Taskforce, or The Pit, as it’s not so affectionately known, isn’t well known outside of the bureau. Doesn’t mean they don’t get a metric shit ton of crank calls. Next to him, Natasha’s still talking “We had some weird reports from around here. And the government likes to keep on top of these things.”

“That so?” Jake asks, slow and steady. It’s a non-committal response, exactly what a guy serving coffee at a diner day in day out might say, but it’s also what you’d say if you were trying to sound nonchalant. That’s the way it goes, Clint supposes. No one likes the feds and no one talks to you, especially not in front of half the town.

“Yeah, way I see it, no crime, no reason for us to be here,” Clint says with a shrug. With every fibre of his being he’s trying to convey ‘tired, overworked grunt’. He’s not The Man, he’s a guy who pushes paper for The Man. He’s the guy The Man sends on wild goose chases. Natasha, next to him, shrugs out of her jacket and rolls up her sleeves, sinking into the part. “But we get sent out here to check, we gotta check, y’know. Ask the questions we gotta ask, tick the boxes, take some pictures for the records, be gone before the ink’s dry. Pity, though. Seems like a good sort of a place.”

Jake looks at him, slow and assessing.

“Don’t think there’s much to know about it,” he says. “Not any more. Saw a flash, that night, heard a sound like a two-ton bomb and the ground shook like a plate of Jell-o.” He shrugs. “I didn’t go out, but Old Maxine took her truck, went right out to see it. Says there’s a hole the size of this diner out there.”

“That big?” Natasha asks. “That must be quite the sight to see.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jake tells them. “I got better things t’do than stare at a hole in the ground.”

“Haven’t we all,” Clint agrees, gulping at his coffee. It’s half-way decent, but he pours the sugar in anyway. Extra energy never did anyone any harm.

“And have you seen or heard anything strange since then?” Natasha asks. “People acting out of the ordinary? Weird sights or sounds.”

“No more’n usual,” Jake says, with a touch of finality to his words. “It’s a good town,” he says, clear and firm. “Good people. Nothin’ outta the ordinary.”

There’s a warning in those words and Clint sees Natasha’s head tilt to one side slightly out of the corner of his eye. So he’s not alone in finding this guy interesting, although he doubts her list of reasons is quite the same as his. Hers probably doesn’t feature the stubble on his cut-glass jawline quite so prominently for one.

“No doubt about that,” Clint says. “We get paid to ask. Just...” he pulls a battered business card from his pocket and slides it over the counter. “If anything strange does happen, let us know.”

“Sure,” Jake says, leaving the card where it is. Clint knows they’re never going to hear from him

“Thanks,” Clint says.

“Jake,” Natasha says, cutting in, her voice light as she takes the cup Jake slides towards her. “Don’t suppose you could help us out and tell us where that meteorite landed. And direct us to somewhere we could stay in town.”

“It fell out north, just off the church road,” Jake says. “Go out north, take the next left, drive a ways and you can’t miss it. Great massive hole in the ground.”

“But you haven’t been out to see it,” Clint says slowly.

“Nope,” Jake says, but he doesn’t follow it up. “And if you’re looking for somewhere to stay, Jesse’s got a motel up there, got a few rooms free… though you ain’t the first folks here looking for the meteor.”

“Looking for it?” Clint asks. “Would have thought it was pretty easy to find, what with the huge crater, and all.”

“You’d think,” Jake says.

“You’d think,” someone further down the counter says, and Clint turns to see a woman leaning against it, looking right at them, no pretence of any subterfuge. “You space chasers?”

“Not exactly ma’am,” Clint tells her, raising his badge again. Unlike Jake, she reaches out for it and looks it over, one eyebrow rising at what she reads. “This is more official business… routine check up. We go to all incidents like this.”

“That so?” she asks, her voice as skeptical as Jake’s had been.

“And who might you be?” Natasha asks, offering her own ID.

“Maxine Jefferson,” the woman says. “I’m the one that found the hole…”

“Nice to meet you,” Clint says. She nods, like that’s to be expected.

“Was the damndest thing, though,” she goes on. “Bigass crater. Nothing in it. You gonna tell me how that happens?”

“I don’t do the science part,” Clint tells her, scratching at the back of his head.

“Probably the force of the impact,” Natasha says with authority, although Clint knows she’s about as much an expert on meteorites as he is. “When a meteorite hits earth the force creates an explosion - which you all heard.”

“I’ll say. Thought world war three was starting,” Maxine says, shaking her head. “So you’re telling me a rock fell to earth and then it exploded?”

“That tends to be how it works,” Natasha says. “You remember the meteor in Russia a few years ago? It blew people’s windows right out.” Maxine nods as though that makes sense to her.

“I can take you out to the crater, if you want,” she tells them. He and Natasha share a look and Clint holds out his hand.

“That would be great, thank you very much.”

*

Maxine leads them out to the impact site, as Clint searches for meteorite facts on his phone and recites them to Natasha. The car trundles down the roads, following the battered red pick-up Maxine drives.

When they get there, she nods and drives off, clearly content to have done her part.

Alright, so Clint can accept that this is cool.

The crater’s about ten metres across, there are half burnt trees and melted rocks, concentric haloes of cracks where the meteor smashed down, sending ripples out through the earth.

He looks up at the sky. Something from all the way up there landed right here. It’s a little humbling to think about. 

There are people in the area, ‘space chasers’ Clint guesses, carrying equipment and cameras, scribbling stuff down in notebooks. When he and Natasha walk up in their suits, people pay attention and he can see a lot of agitated whispering.

Aliens. They’re gonna claim it’s aliens. They always do. Clint sighs and stretches his arms out over his head.

“Wanna move ‘em on?” he asks. Natasha shakes her head.

“That would only cause more rumours. I don’t think we’re going to find much here. Take some samples, get some statements.”

There are some people down in the crater, taking soil samples already. Clint strips off his jacket and balls it up, before walking over to the edge.

“Try not to break your neck,” Natasha tells him and he waves her off. He’s a trained acrobat, he can definitely manage a little…

His feet only slide for about two metres, and he stays upright, so he’ll take that. No one’s laughing at least. Although he definitely has stones in his shoes. He really should have changed to hiking boots before coming out here. He scrambles further down, right into the basin, and pulls the sample kit from his pocket, nodding to the women who are already down here.

“Are you with the government?” one of them asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, giving her a bright smile. “Routine assessment.” She looks him up and down suspiciously.

“You don’t look like a scientist," the other one says.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not,” he shrugs as he crouches down to scoop residue into the little plastic sample jar. “I leave that to the kids in the lab. I just do the heavy lifting.”

They don’t seem impressed.

“And what do they want with this meteor?” the first lady asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Like I said, I leave that to the kids in the lab,” Clint tells her, standing up again and pocketing the sample. “I go where I’m told.”

Lady number two sniffs in disbelief.

“Yeah, that’s what you would say,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Is this going to be another cover up? Are we going to disappear?”

“Not as far as I know, ma’am,” Clint says. “I’m just here to get soil samples.”

“Is this a military test gone wrong?” she asks. “Did they lose track of a missile? Did a secret prototype airplane crash? Is that what the wing shapes are?”

Clint looks around at the crater.

“Wing shapes?” he asks. “As far as I know this is just a meteorite impact. What wings?”

“The discolouration?” she says, gesturing at the ground. “It looks like wings.”

He looks down at the ground. There is indeed a strange discolouration to the ground at their feet, not solid, but stippled in a strip across the centre of the crater. Huh, well that’s worth noting. He takes another sample of the discoloured soil.

“Just a meteor?” the first woman says, her voice rising. “You have no understanding of the scientific discoveries that can come from studying…”

“Ja-ane,” the woman next to her says and the first lady - Jane, Clint guesses - glares at her.

“Darcy,” she hisses back.

“Nice to meet you,” he offers, then turns to tackle the more annoying part of climbing out of the hole.

“Bye sinister government goon,” the second lady calls out. “Nice meeting you! I look forward to seeing you again when you illegally detain us and make us disappear.”

Clint can’t resist turning to give her a small salute.

“Ssh, if you say it too loud  _ everyone _ will want to disappear,” he tells her. She grins back.

He makes his way out of the crater in a way that doesn’t feel graceful at all. He used to be able to throw himself around like a spinning top, now climbing out of a hole in the ground feels like it’s too much exercise for the week. He really needs to warm up more.

He heaves himself out of the crater and stands up, dusting off his hands, but giving up his pants as a lost cause. He’s wearing brown pants now, that’s just the way it is.

Looking down at the crash site again, he frowns.

Natasha’s already making her way around the perimeter, measuring things and examining it from all angles, taking photos, she’s probably got one from this angle already, but Clint scoops out his phone and takes one of his own, firing it off to Phil with the message:  _ what does this look like to you? _

_ It looks like we may have a category 4 paranormal incident _ , Phil responds, because he’s memorised the PIT handbook. Clint keeps meaning to read that thing.

Natasha comes up to stand next to him and look down. Clint gives a brief look around to make sure no one’s standing close to him.

“So this might be more than a meteorite,” he says.

“I think you might be right,” she agrees, and they both look down into the crater, and at the clear imprint of feathered wings seared into the ground, splayed out from the middle.

*

“Phoenix,” he suggests, shoving food into his mouth. “It’s gotta be a phoenix, Nat. Fire streaking through the sky, burnt wing marks, nothing in the crater. It’s a fucking phoenix.”

“Maybe,” Natasha says. “But we have no evidence that the wing marks are even real.”

“I’ve found a conspiracy blog that says it’s either aliens, or the government have perfected a winged jet pack and one of the test pilots crashed and died.”

“Of course you have,” Natasha says.

“I’m going to grab some more coffee from the vending machine,” he says, swallowing the last of his taco. “Want something?” She shakes her head, so he shrugs on his jacket and heads outside alone.

He plugs his money into the slot and stabs at the coffee button with his finger. It’s an old machine, takes a while of whirring and clicking to decide whether it wants to oblige, then bursts into furious life, vibrating with the force.

It’s almost distracting enough he doesn’t notice the reflection in the shiny plastic of the guy coming up behind him. As nonchalantly as he can, he moves his hand to brush his fingers against his gun in its holster. He’s got no idea why anyone would want to rough up a Fed in a parking lot, but he figures there are other, more pressing matters to attend to.

“Nice night,” he says instead, trying to sound amiable. The distorted figure in the reflection pauses.

“You were at the crater,” a man’s voice says. It’s rough, but pleasant, and it’s not the sort of accent Clint was expecting. 

He turns around slowly, assessing that voice for a moment. Northern accent there, more of a New York lilt than anything southern, definitely nowhere near the drawn out vowels that most of the folk round here are packing. And something else, something Clint can’t put his finger on, but there’s a quality to it that he doesn’t recognise as American at all. Maybe something European?

As he gets a glimpse of what the stranger looks like, his eyebrows rise up his forehead. Shorter than Clint, but built like he doesn’t miss leg day - ever. Long hair, for a guy, curling just above his shoulders, a jawline that could crack nuts, dusted with a day or so’s stubble, bright grey eyes that seem to look right into Clint, but which are situated beneath a brow scrunched in confusion. He’s wearing jeans that are too long in the leg and tight in the thigh, stretched obscenely around muscles that Clint could only dream of having - or sitting on. A thin henley is also stretched too-tight across his chest, under a battered leather jacket.

“I was,” Clint says, his throat going a bit dry as his libido insistently reminds him that it’s been too long since he last got laid. “I didn’t see you there.”

“You didn’t notice me,” the man says.

“That seems unlikely,” Clint replies before he can stop himself. “I mean… uh, you’re pretty noticeable."

There is a faint, slightly confused smile on the man’s face as he looks at him.

“You… you were looking at the crater,” he says.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, “Not every day you see the remains of something that fell from heaven.”

“You’re investigating it,” the man says, more insistently, stepping forwards in something that seems like agitation. Clint steps back automatically, his back hitting the vending machine.

“Yeah, that’s my job,” Clint agrees, holding up a hand between them.

“You shouldn’t,” the man says. Clint frowns, because this guy doesn’t have the demeanour of someone who’s threatening Clint. He seems wholly too confused for that, but that seems to be where the conversation is going. Maybe he’s one of the space chasers who’ve come out to look at it - that would explain the accent. And god knows you get some interesting and out there people whenever outer space comes up. It’s possible this guy’s just some over eager new-ageist, who thinks that rocks falling from the sky is a sign of the apocalypse or something.

“Why’s that then?” Clint asks.

“I have…” the man raises a hand between them. “I was at the crater. I looked at you and I knew that if you stayed here, there would be danger.”

Definitely a kook, Clint thinks with a sigh. Why does he always attract the weird ones? Pretty? Sure, but never exactly heading for a healthy relationship.

“Danger’s part of the job,” Clint tells him. “I’ve been in dangerous situations before, I’ve survived.”

“This is worse,” the man says. “This is…” he reaches out between them and Clint’s hand drifts closer to his gun again, but the motion isn’t threatening. The man’s fingers reach out and touch against the centre of Clint’s chest and it’s like an electric shock. Clint jerks with the power of it, then a sense of dread fills him, flooding everywhere inside him, leaving him gasping, eyes wide with the horror of it.

He pulls his gun as the man steps away, pointing it with shaky hands.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asks. The man looks at him, then down at the gun.

“That’s what I felt when I looked at you,” he says and Clint just stares at him.

Alright… emotional transference… that’s a big one. Fuck.

He lowers his gun and pushes a hand through his hair. Any lingering doubts he had about this being a proper case are gone. This guy’s empathic or Clint might as well turn in his badge now.

“OK”, he says. “How about I buy you a coffee and you tell me what you know?”

The guy looks away.

“That won’t take very long,” he admits.

“Why not?” Clint asks.

“I don’t remember,” the man says with a shrug.

“Don’t remember what?” Clint asks.

“Anything before two weeks ago,” the man says. “When the star fell.”

“Ri-ight,” Clint says slowly, tucking his gun back before he turns to grab his coffee. It’s disgusting, but he doesn’t know what else he expected from vending machine coffee. “In that case, I definitely need to talk to you.” He texts Natasha to tell her he’s following up on a lead. “You remember a name I can call you?”

The man looks almost panicked for a moment, then a little lost before the frown lines smooth from his forehead for a moment.

“Bucky,” he says. “I think… I think you can call me Bucky.”

“Alright Bucky,” Clint tells him. “I’ve got a room here where we can talk privately. Is that okay with you?” Bucky nods and Clint breathes a sigh of relief.

The motel room is cramped and was probably decorated by a colourblind person, but it is at least private and there are two rickety chairs optimistically set up in one corner, trying to look inviting. Clint lowers himself into one, which creaks ominously under his weight. Bucky looks at the other then chooses to sit on the end of the bed.

“Tell me what you do remember,” Clint says and Bucky nods.

“Two weeks ago,” he says. “I woke up in a field. I… didn’t know why I was there, I didn’t know how I got there, I didn’t know who I was. I just… I just remember feeling like I had to run. There were lights coming towards me and about ten feet away there was this hole - the crater.

“I ran,” he says. “I avoided people and I tried to work out what was going on, but I… it’s like there’s this wall in my mind I can’t get past. I tried, but the memories wouldn’t come.”

“Amnesia’s a bitch,” Clint says, although he’s never really had it, just a few head wounds that have left his memory a bit mixed up. It seems like the right thing to say, though.

“I grabbed some clothes I found…” Bucky goes on.

“Wait, clothes?” Clint asks. “You… you woke up naked?”

“No,” Bucky says… “I was… there was…” he spreads his hands. “Fabric…”

“A sheet?” Clint suggests. Bucky nods.

“So you woke up near a big hole in the ground, wrapped in a sheet with no memory of how you got to be there?” Clint says, trying to straighten things out in his mind. “That’s a hell of a morning after.”

“Yeah,” Bucky actually smiles a bit at that. He looks more comfortable now than he had when they were outside. The smile brightens his face and Clint feels his heart skip a beat. “I had a feeling, like someone was after me,” he says. “I knew I had to stay hidden, but I didn’t have anywhere to go…” He ducks his head down a bit, looking ashamed, and Clint thinks about being on your own out here, scared of everyone and without even your own clothes.

“Hey, no, you stayed alive, you’re doing great!” Clint tells him. Bucky looks up, raising an eyebrow. His eyes look… old for a second. Like they’ve seen way more than Clint can imagine.

“That’s a pretty low bar,” Bucky tells him and Clint gives a startled laugh.

“I had a therapist once, who told me to set achievable goals,” Clint tells him. “The worst part is ‘staying alive’ is actually one of my more difficult ones.” Bucky frowns, looking Clint up and down. Clint wonders what he can sense.

“Yeah, I see that,” Bucky agrees. His mouth is pursing up and his eyes start to look around nervously, like someone might be coming for them. Clint doesn’t even think about it, just reaches out to grasp at Bucky’s hands where they’re balled up into fists. It doesn’t occur to him until they’re already touching, skin to skin, that this might be a bad move with a highly powerful empath. Clint’s sense of self-preservation has always been a bit faulty.

As soon as their skin connects, the world seems to freeze in time. They’re looking each other right in the eye, and it occurs to Clint that this is probably the most intimate he’s been with anyone in… forever, and that’s not even including the empath bit. Bucky’s staring at him with wide open eyes, his mouth open just a little, and Clint feels…

Lonely. Lost. Scared.

He wonders what Bucky feels from him. He hopes it’s happy, because seriously, this guy needs something good right now. He tries very hard to think of happy things, but he’s not sure it works.

Bucky squeezes his hand once, involuntarily it seems, and then withdraws.

“Look, no strings, no creepiness, you can stay here. My partner’s got the next room down so I’ll just sleep on her floor tonight.”

“No, it’s your room,” Bucky says, looking around at the interesting décor. He doesn't wince, which is kind of impressive.

"Well now it's yours," Clint says.

"I don't… I haven't been able to sleep," Bucky tells him. He looks up and his eyes are haunted. "Stay?"

It's a terrible idea - for so many reasons. Not least of which is that Bucky is an unknown with paranormal abilities and Clint absolutely should not trust him. It is one hundred percent a terrible idea.

"Okay," Clint says. "I'll stay."

  
  



	2. But a Dream

Clint does take the sofa in the end, though it's a battle to get there. It's not even that uncomfortable really, although his feet hang off the end. He takes his hearing aids out, aware of Bucky watching him with fascination, and beds down for the night.

To wake him up, Bucky's screaming must be pretty loud. One of the good things about being hard of hearing is not having to worry about noisy neighbours, but it's about three in the morning when Bucky's distress trumps Clint's crappy ears and he's pulled out of a dream he doesn't remember to find his roommate thrashing on the bed almost howling with pain.

Clint's had a lot of performance reviews mention his insistence on acting before he thinks. It's been the source of many sighs from literally everyone who's ever worked with him. It's no surprise then, that he sticks his hearing aids in and runs straight to Bucky's side. He reaches out without thinking and grasps at Bucky’s arm.

Utter terror thrums through him - terror, desperation and a sense of betrayal - but that’s nothing to the pain that blazes through him a second later, burning all other sensations away, leaving only agony, focused in his back.

Arms wrap around him, and before he knows it Bucky’s clinging to him with a grip that’s too strong. It feels like his skin’s too hot, but maybe that’s just the lingering burning sensation, which continues to throb and tear at his back. Clint grits his teeth and holds on, drawing in deep breaths - or as deep as he can with Bucky’s death grip around him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay… whatever you’re dreaming, it’s not real.”

There’s a click at his door and the body wrapped around him goes suddenly and completely still. The pain ebbs down to a manageable level, although he can still feel his back throbbing.

“Yeah?” Clint calls out, patting at Bucky’s shoulder a little awkwardly. The door swings open and Clint calculates how likely he is to be able to grab his gun from where it’s sitting wrapped up in his pants by the sofa. Not likely.

But the form silhouetted in the doorway is Natasha’s and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nat! Did we wake you?” he asks.

She flicks the light on and Clint winces against the sudden light, and then he winces some more as he realises what this must look like - him half naked, being aggressively cuddled by the random stranger he’d invited to spend the night in his room. The report he writes up for this one is going to be a doozy.

Natasha’s in her pyjamas, gun in hand, her hair a mess, but an aesthetically pleasing one. She looks completely alert, which is unfair to Clint’s half dressed, bleary-eyed mess. But then it’s not that much different from usual.

“Me and half the town,” she says. “It sounded like someone was having their teeth ripped out in here.” She looks them up and down and what Clint likes about Nat is that she doesn’t judge… well, that’s not true, but she’s already judged him and things like this don't faze her.

“Sorry, nightmares,” Clint says, conveniently not mentioning that they weren’t his.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky says, pushing himself upright and shuffling back to the head of the bed, putting a good two foot between him and Clint. “I was…” he looks up at Nat and pauses, his brow crinkling in a frown before it becomes blank once more. “I’ll try to keep it down.”

Natasha stares at Bucky and Bucky stares back, it’s like there’s a silent conversation going on, but Clint’s not privy to it.

“You’re the empath,” Natasha says. Bucky’s eyes flicker to Clint, who shrugs a little helplessly. Of course he told Natasha, she’s his partner. He is, against all appearances, a professional. “Nice to meet you. I’m Agent Romanov.”

“Agent?” Bucky asks, and Clint realises he maybe hadn’t mentioned that part earlier.

“We’re feds,” Clint says. “Sorry, thought you knew. The badge and the gun are usually a dead giveaway.”

“You never showed me any badge,” Bucky says. Natasha snorts.

“That’s strange. Usually it’s his go to method for getting people into bed.”

“That was one time,” Clint says. “And I was drunk.”

“It’s okay, pal,” Bucky says, smirking slightly, “I believe you.” Clint doesn’t believe him, though. Bucky seems to have regained some composure.

“Your nightmares then, not Clint’s?” Natasha asks, stepping into the room to close the door behind her. Bucky looks at Clint, though more curious that Clint has nightmares than anything else. “With your abilities, they might be relevant to our investigations. Do you mind talking to us about them?”

Clint’s about to protest that’s a dick move, when Bucky nods hesitantly.

“Do you have them every night?” Natasha asks before Clint can even open his mouth, clearly deciding that Clint is not allowed to be in charge of this interview.

“Since I woke up out there… yes,” Bucky says.

“Always the same nightmare?”

“Similar…” Bucky says, he sounds reluctant to go further and Clint misses the warmth of him, but that’s kind of stupid. He only just met the guy. He gives Bucky what he hopes is an encouraging smile, but his eyes are unfocused and his face has this slightly lost look to it. 

“There’s a lot of light,” Bucky says. “And someone telling me… not to do anything stupid.” Clint chuckles, giving Natasha a look because he knows that conversation. “Then the light changes and it’s blue… and there’s pain in my back and… I know someone’s after me and I… I’m not running, but I’m moving away from them… like I’m running away, but I’m not running. It’s… I can’t… and the blue light needs to be safe and… the pain is…” Bucky rolls his back with a face that makes Clint think that the pain isn’t gone, not really.

“This blue light that you needed to keep safe,” Natasha says. “Do you remember anything else about it?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“And do you have any idea what you were doing by the crater that night?” Natasha asks. Bucky swallows.

“I… sometimes I walk in my sleep.” Bucky says. “I wake up… walking.”

Natasha just hums as she watches him, but Bucky doesn’t shift under her gaze. Most people do. She’s got a talent for making people squirm like bugs under a microscope. Bucky just stares right back at her, like he’s analysing her just as much as she is him. Clint scratches at his shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, you want me to look at your back?” he asks. Bucky and Natasha turn to him with identical confused expressions and Clint realises that out of the context of his own head, and the echoes of pain he can still feel, that sentence is possibly a little odd.

“Where it hurts,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I’m not trying to get you to take your top off, I just… aw… it hurt, right? I could have a look to see if there are any marks there.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, but there’s a tightness to his jaw that suggests that isn’t entirely true. Clint raises an eyebrow and looks at Nat, who just waves a hand to point out that this is his stray and he can take care of him.

“Me having a look can’t make it hurt any more than it already does, right?” Clint says, holding up his hands. “I swear I won’t touch.”

Bucky looks at him, then at Natasha for a second, before nodding once, tightly. He goes to pull off the henley he’s wearing and Clint nearly swallows his tongue. That’s… a whole lot of muscle on display. He tries to say something, but fails and ends up just gesturing for Bucky to turn around, which he does with a petulant abruptness, like he’s fed up of this already.

There’s a vivid red line down the left side of his back, like a bad sunburn, almost. It starts at his shoulder blade and slopes in towards his spine, cutting off about halfway down. Clint’s hand goes out to hover over it, but he holds it back before he can touch.

“Ow, yeah… that doesn’t look great,” he says. “You might have got hit by a bit of rock when the meteorite hit - they burn pretty hot - but it’s not bleeding, and I don’t think it looks like it’s infected or anything.” Clint’s knowledge of first aid mostly revolves around bleeding (bad), medication (mostly good), and bed rest (definitely bad, although everyone tells him it’s good). “It’ll probably fade in a few days, but it’s gonna be a bitch taking showers.”

Bucky doesn’t comment, just turns around, like the sudden half nudity doesn’t even bother him, although it’s going to be very distracting to Clint. He can sense Nat’s amusement in her gaze, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of looking at her.

“What about your friend?” Clint says, filling the silence with something. “The one who told you not to do anything stupid… what do you remember about them?” Bucky frowns, but it’s not a bad frown, just the look of someone trying to remember something that’s just out of reach.

“I… think it was a he,” he says. “I don’t… I didn’t see anything but light.”

“The blue light,” Natasha interrupts.

“No… not then. Then it was… white. Bright white,” Bucky looks at Clint then, although it was Natasha who asked the question. “I didn’t see a face, just white light.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “Well brains are stupid, they make all sorts of shit up. But if that was a memory, then at least you know there’s someone out there who’ll be looking for you, right?” Bucky looks horrified. “I mean, apart from the people you think are looking for you. There’s someone looking for you who wants to help… probably.”

“We should get some more sleep,” Natasha says. “Clint and I have things to do in the morning.” She doesn’t say that Bucky looks like he needs to sleep too, although it’s true, just heads for the door. “Sweet dreams, boys,” she tells them, but she does give Clint a hard look, a look that says she will be sleeping with half an ear open in case he manages to get himself killed. In spite of that, she stillleaves the pair of them alone, so she must trust Bucky a little bit - or she at least wants him to think she trusts him.

They both end up in the bed after that. Bucky tells him to just lie down already, so Clint does. It’s weird, the way Bucky seems to vary between being completely lost, and these flashes of personality that cut through. Clint would be lying if he claimed to get much sleep after that, though. He’s vividly aware of the guy lying next to him, still shirtless, because apparently he just doesn’t care, and he’s aware that if they touch, things are going to get more personal than either of them wants right now.

It’s a long night.

Breakfast is a pastry and approximately two pints of coffee. Bucky shuffles after him into the diner, looking around with his shoulders hunched up, and he and Natasha are cordial, but not exactly friendly as Clint stuffs his cheeks hamster-full of carbs and caffeine.

“What are you going to be up to today, Bucky?” Natasha asks, leaning back in the booth like she hasn’t got a care in the world. Bucky shrugs, his eyes flickering around, but always coming back to Nat.

“Look around,” he says with a shrug. “Try to find someone who knows who I am.”

It sounds a bit like a lie, but Natasha doesn’t push, just tilts her head and nods. Clint grins at the server and asks for another coffee, which is dutifully poured. It’s fresh and hot and scorches half his taste buds as he swallows it, which is exactly how I like it.

“We’ll keep an eye out too,” he says, around another mouthful of danish. “We’ve got badges. We’re official and everything.”

Bucky looks at him and offers a half smile.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Can I get a picture?” Clint asks. Bucky stares at him, uncomprehending. “So I can show it to people if they say someone’s gone missing… See if they know you?”

“I don’t…” Bucky shifts uncomfortably, and Clint remembers how scared he had been of someone coming after him.

“No, it’s okay, stupid idea,” he says with a shrug. “I swear we’ll be subtle. No one will know unless we’re sure they’re the good guys.”

“I’ll be subtle,” Natasha says. “Clint will keep his mouth shut and look pretty.”

“It’s what I do best,” Clint agrees amiably, raising his mug to her in mock salute. Bucky looks almost like he’s going to laugh. “Seriously, we’re good at this stuff. You’ll be fine. If you want to just hang around in my motel room all day, that’s cool too. You got any cash?”

Bucky shakes his head and Clint reaches into his pocket, only to remember that he hasn’t actually got cash himself at the moment, and looking beseechingly at Natasha, who sighs and pulls out some bills to push over the table to Bucky.

“Stay out of trouble,” she says. Bucky raises an eyebrow, but takes the bills, pocketing them quickly.

“Thanks Nat,” Clint says, giving her a huge grin. She rolls her eyes and he can tell there are a lot of things she is not saying right now, but he’s going to hear them all when they’re in the car.

Breakfast, sadly, has to end sometime, but Clint manages to grab another coffee to go as they sidle back towards the car. Bucky lurks in the corner of his vision, hands stuck in his pockets, and they have the awkward goodbye of two people who barely know each other but slept next to each other last night.

“So, where are we headed?” he asks, as Natasha starts the engine. He does not look at Bucky in the rearview mirror, because he’s not weird like that.

“Yesterday we investigated the crash site,” she says. “Today we investigate the phenomena that accompanied it. There are reports all over town of people acting strangely, and  _ things _ happening.”

“Ah yeah, the two-headed snake!” Clint says.

“I was more thinking the hallucinations, the spontaneous combustion of two cows, and the person who reported seeing a dragon,” she says.

“A dragon?” Clint asks, twisting to grab the file from the back seat. Sure enough there it is in black and white - dragon sighting. Well, you don’t see that every day.

“There’s some other stuff in here too,” he says, flicking through. “The missing people, the folks hearing the whispers, a guy who claims one of his cows learnt how to fly, and the family that reported an intruder the morning afterwards, only to have no recollection of filing the report.”

“The flying cow guy was drunk,” Natasha says. “And lots of people report intruders every day without anything being wrong.”

“Most of them remember making the call, though,” Clint points out.

“That’s why we’re going to check it out anyway.”

*

Clint will never eat beef again.

Okay, so that’s a lie, but seeing - and smelling - the place where two cows spontaneously combusted and left a greasy black stain behind is really not a pleasant experience. The owner’s not happy about it either, but who would be. The cows are supposed to wait until after you slaughter them to become barbecue. And the way they left their hooves behind…

But it doesn’t seem like anything else is amiss. There are no signs of anything disturbing the rest of the cattle, no indication anything supernatural came in or got out, just… extra crispy brisket. They thank the guy for his time. He gets angry that no one can compensate him for the lost animals and rants that so-and-so down the road must have set them alight, although all the records show there was no accelerant used.

The only thing that is weird, and Clint’s saying this as an aficionado of the weird, is the feather.

It’s stuck to the ground by caramelised cow fat, but when he pries it up with his pocket knife, all that flakes right off, leaving one dark feather, untouched by fire, which is impressive, considering that it must have been there before the fire started in order to be underneath the scorching.

He shows it to Nat.

“Phoenix,” he says, grinning. She looks at the feather cautiously.

“Do phoenixes have feathers?” she asks.

“They’ve got to, they’re birds, right?” Clint says.

“Wouldn’t a phoenix feather be more… fiery?” she says.

“You mean, like enough to set two cows alight?” he asks. She purses her lips. “Come on, it’s a good theory.”

“But it’s still just a theory, Clint.”

They take the feather, which isn’t hot at all, bag it and leave, thanking the irate owner for his time, and move on to their next phenomenon.

It turns out the two-headed snake is probably just a freak mutation, which Clint is sad about, but whatever. Sometimes cool things turn out to be natural rather than supernatural.

Dragon lady, though, she’s another story. Built like a linebacker and well into her forties, the woman checks their badges religiously before she lets them step foot in her house, snapping “wipe your feet” as they come in with all the authority of a drill sergeant.

“You’re here about the dragon,” she says. “Paranormal Investigation Taskforce, huh? And I thought I’d seen everything.”

  
“Well, apparently you saw a dragon,” Clint says, unable to resist. She eyeballs him viciously and he shrinks back, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. “Sorry ma’am.”

“Can you tell us what happened the night you saw the creature?” Natasha says.

“It wasn’t a star, I can tell you that much,” the woman tells them. “People keep saying it was a meteorite, but I ain’t never seen a meteorite with wings - have you?”

“No ma’am,” Clint replies automatically.

“What made you think it was a dragon?” Natasha asks.

“Well… there were these huge dark wings,” the woman says. “Only it was out of control and spinning, like it couldn’t fly properly,” She points out the window. “Came right out of the sky, and I could see… limbs. Like legs, more’n two of them, too, so I knew it wasn’t no bird.”

  
“How could you see that, if it was dark?” Natasha asks.

“Because of the fire,” the woman says. “Bright blue fire, right in front of it. That’s what made me think dragon. Thought I’d gone mad for a second, but I know my own mind.”

“Blue fire?” Clint asks, thinking about Bucky’s dream and the bright blue light. Dreams aren’t clear cut and things don’t always make sense in them. If Bucky had been blasted by some kind of psychic… force, and he’d seen bright blue fire, those things could definitely combine in his head.

“Yep, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Not like when you burn the hob hot, more…” she paused, thinking. “It was more… sparkly, than that.”

“Sparkly?” Natasha prompts and the woman throws her hands up in the air.

“Best way I can describe it. Like the fire was twinkling. Never seen anything quite as pretty as that fire.”

“Then what happened?” Clint asks.

“Then… it must have breathed fire properly,” the woman says. “Because that blue fire streaked across the sky down southwest, towards the Hillman Farm, and the dragon crashed over in that crater, and the world exploded like the end was nigh.”

“It breathed fire to the southwest?” Natasha asks.

“That’s what I said,” the woman tells her. “And that was it. It breathes the fire, it crashes with an explosion like I’ve never heard before, and then everything’s quiet.”

It’s quite a story, but they don’t have anything to back her up. No one else lives in the house, no one else has reported a dragon, or any blue fire. The wings, though… that does seem to be what they keep coming back to. The marks in the crater, the feather in the scorched ground, the dragon falling to earth. Something with wings fell down that night.

They climb back into the car again.

“Do phoenixes breathe fire?” Natasha asks.

  
“Baby phoenix,” Clint says immediately. “The parent throws it to safety, or something…”

“I thought the whole point of phoenixes was that that they didn’t have parents,” Natasha says. “Cycle of life and death, reborn from their own ashes, never ending or beginning.”

“Just because the folklore says it’s so, doesn’t mean it’s right,” Clint tells her, although he’s got to admit, baby blue phoenix seems a bit of a stretch. The feather seems like it might be important, though.

“You don’t think dragon?” Natasha asks him.

“Dragons don’t have feathers,” Clint points out.

“People now think that dinosaurs had feathers, so why not dragons?” she asks. “And in some mythologies they do…”

“I’m sticking with phoenix,” Clint says. “What’s your best guess?”

“I don’t guess,” Natasha tells him, archly, but there’s a smile curling her lips.

“Yes you do,” he says. “You just don’t want to tell me so when it turns out what the truth is you can claim that was your idea all along. I know your game.”

“Then why are you bothering to ask me?” she asks sweetly, turning to grin at him. He smiles back. “One thing I did find interesting, though,” she grabs the file and hands it to him. “When she said where the fire went - did you catch the name?”

“Hillman,” Clint says, thinking rapidly. “Like the family who reported the intruder?”

“Exactly.”   
  


“I guess we know where we’re heading next.”

“I guess we do.”

*

The Hillman house looks like it’s been rebuilt a fair few times, with additions bolted onto the sides as needed, and they pull up beside one of the big four-by-fours that’s just as good at driving over farmland as it is at fitting a family of six and their dogs in the back. There’s a cheery sunshade with pictures of Sesame Street characters stuck to the back window and dirt splattered liberally up the sides.

Clint adjusts his tie as the door swings open, a boy of maybe 8 years old looks at the pair of them in their suits and turns to yell “MA! It’s the FEDS!” at a volume that would impress a professional opera singer.

Within seconds a woman and a man appear behind him, both looking like they’d been in the middle of some intensive spring cleaning, Clint spots two children at the top of the stairs, too, one girl of about thirteen with long dark hair straightened to within an inch of its life, the other, much smaller with white-blonde hair pulled back in bunches, sticks her head out from behind her sister’s legs.

“Mr and Mrs Hillman?” Natasha says as Clint winks at the littlest kid and gives her a quick wave, making her duck back behind her sister.

“Yes?” Mrs Hillman says, looking between them cautiously. They pull out their badges in familiar synchronisation.

“Special agents Romanov and Barton. We’re with the FBI, following up on the meteorite strike last week. We heard that you had an intruder that night.”

“Oh,” the woman says, looking at their badges.

“No intruder,” her husband says and she nods in agreement. Clint looks between them, trying to work out if there’s any coercion going on there, but there are no signs of fear or worry beyond what he’d expect from a visit by the FBI. “We think it must have been a prank call.”

“I understand that,” Natasha says, and smiles her most encouraging smile.

“We’re just here to cross the Ts and dot the Is,” Clint says. “You know how bureaucratic these things can be. We’re going to every house that reported a disturbance that night. It’s just a few questions.”

“Sure… okay,” Mrs Hillman says, sharing a look with her husband. “Do you want to come in?”

“Thank you,” Natasha says again. They are led into the kitchen, where Mrs Hillman makes them sweet tea and offers them cookies from the jar.

“So what did you want to know?” she asks as they all perch on stools.

“The report says the call came in from your house at 3am, about half an hour after the meteor struck,” Natasha prompts. Clint keeps his eyes on everyone, watching their faces and their body language.

“I don’t know about that,” Mrs Hillman says. “We were woken up by the explosion, but we… we were all in the front room. The children were all scared by the noise.”

“Understandable,” Natasha agrees, giving the boy a warm smile. “Did you see the meteorite?”

“No…” Mr Hillman says. “Our bedroom’s on the other side of the house.”

“I saw the light,” the boy says.

“Billy-”

“No, I did!” he says, glaring at his mother defiantly. “It was blue.”

“Billy!” his mother says sternly.

“Blue, huh?” Clint says. “That sounds weird.”

“It was really weird,” Billy says.

“The children came to wake us up,” Mr Hillman said. “Although we were already awake. I don’t know how anyone could sleep through that!”

“And we all went downstairs to see what was happening and… I thought we’d make the children some cocoa,” Mrs Hillman says.

The door to the kitchen opens and a small head peers around, Clint smiles at the little girl with the white blonde hair.

“We didn’t know about the call to the sheriff's office until the car turned up here and Doug - Deputy Monroe, knocked on the door.”

“Yes, that’s what his report says,” Natasha agrees. “You let him in and he looked around, but he couldn’t find anything out of place.”

“Yes,” Mr Hillman agrees. “We were all… disturbed by the idea, especially with what had already happened that night. We wanted to make sure the children were safe.”

“The original report said,” Natasha flicks through the file in her hand, though Clint knows she already knows what she’s going to say. “It said that the intruder was in your son’s bedroom… I don’t suppose we could see that room, could we?”

“That’ll help you with the… meteor?” Mr Hillman says, even as his wife is standing up and saying ‘of course.” “Well, whatever helps,” he agrees. “I don’t think he’s tidied it in a few days, though.”

“That’s okay,” Clint says. “It can’t be any untidier than mine is!” He winks at the boy, who grins back.

They troop upstairs to the boy’s room to find exactly what Clint might expect: one bed, a video game console setup, with piles of boxes around it, some posters on the wall, and some drawings the kid has obviously done himself. He finds himself looking at one of the family, the usual sort of thing - Mum, Dad, two kids, the house behind them, the sort of thing that you might find anywhere in the world. There’s another one, higher up, that looks like it might be more relevant, showing dark sky and a bright blue-white star in it. He notes it for later. As he scans over the wall again, he frowns, feeling an itch in his head like something isn’t quite right, but he shakes it off.

“It would take a bit of effort to climb up here,” Natasha says. “But the window looks like it’s been replaced recently.”   
  


“All the windows on this side of the house had to be replaced,” Mr Hillman says with a grunt. “Darn meteor cracked the lot of them. The one in here nearly blew out. We’re lucky Billy didn’t get hurt.”

“I did get hurt,” Billy says.

“No, dear, you were fine,” his mother says, patting his head, much to Billy’s consternation.

“I  _ was _ hurt, but then K-” his older sister punches him in the arm and hisses at him to shut up. Clint watches the interplay curiously. “Fine, whatever,” Billy says with a petulant whine. “No one listens to me anyway.”

“Katy, don’t punch your brother,” Mr Hillman says automatically.

There’s a tug on Clint’s pant leg and he looks down.

“Who are you?” the kid asks, looking at Clint curiously.

“I’m special agent Clint Barton,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” He crouches down and holds out his hand, but she doesn’t take it, just stares at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her face very serious.

“We’re trying to work out what happened when the big rock fell from the sky,” he says.

“Why?” she asks

“Because it’s a mystery,” Clint says. “And we like mysteries.”

Natasha huffs, because she knows that’s not exactly true; Clint likes mysteries when they’re solved. The actual solving, he can leave to the other guy. Usually the other guy is Natasha.

“What do you do when you solve it?” the kid asks.

“Well that depends on what we find out,” Clint says. “But we’re here to make sure everyone’s safe.”

She nods, very seriously.

“Stop bothering the nice man, dear,” Mrs Hillman says.

“Not bothering me, ma’am,” Clint assures her.

“You keep people safe,” the kid says.

“We try,” Clint tells her. It’s a simplification of the job, of course, but he’s not sure how to explain the rest of what he does to a kid of… seven?

She looks at him, pursing her lips together and then nods sharply. Clint feels like he’s passed some sort of exam. Then she crosses over to her father and pushes her little hand into his.

“If that’s all, agents?” Mr Hillman says.

“Almost,” Natasha tells him smoothly. “What other rooms are on this side of the house?”

“Well, there’s the bathroom, and Katy’s room is next door.”

“And you’re on the other side of the house?” Natasha asks.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr Hillman says. Natasha nods.

“That’s all, then. Thank you.”

They leave, although Clint feels like they didn’t ask the right questions.

“Do you think the boy knew something?” he asks, because he can’t quite work out what it is that’s niggling him at the back of his head. “His sister elbowed him pretty quick when he started talking about being hurt.”

“Maybe,” Natasha’s frowning, too, as she looks at the house. “But they all seem very convinced that there wasn’t an intruder.”

“Must have been a prank call,” Clint says.

“I guess so.”

But there’s something in the back of his head. If only he could put his finger on it.

*

The next stop is the hospital one town over. Hallucinations is what’s written in the Maximoff file alongside a note that said Wanda had been admitted to the psychiatric ward after she started screaming about demons talking to her.

Clint’s not a fan of hospitals, it’s not the smell, although all that antiseptic isn’t doing anyone’s nose any favours, nor is it the white of them. Mostly it’s the memories. He supposes no one has particularly good memories of hospital. If you’re in there, then your day’s probably been pretty shitty, but most people at least have family with them, he hopes, family who are actually there for support and not just to make sure that the eight year old with a suspicious fracture of the ulna keeps his mouth shut.

It’s the job, though. So as the nurse takes them to Miss Maximoff’s room, telling them a bit about what to expect, he manages to make himself as professional as he can get, which isn’t particularly professional, but it’s enough for now.

“She’s lucid most of the time,” the nurse says. “The attacks only happen sporadically. If she seems to be having one, fetch a nurse immediately. They can get pretty violent.”

Wanda Maximoff looks up as they come into the room and, for all the file says about the violence of the episodes she’s been having, she looks like any other kid her age. She has long chestnut hair and bright eyes that look them up and down. A curious little smile crosses her face as she sips at a mug of something, her fingers splayed out on either side of it, making Clint think of wings again. Her smile grows a bit wider, as though she can read his mind.

“Wanda Maximoff?” Natasha asks.

“Yes,” Wanda says, nodding, but her eyes are looking at Clint. No - not at him,  _ into _ him.

“Agents Romanov and Barton,” Natasha says. “We’re here to talk about what’s been happening to you. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“Of course,” she says, setting her drink down on the side table. “You want to know about the night he fell.”

“He?” Clint asks.

“Yes,” Wanda says. “Or that’s what the demons say.” She shrugs with a bitter smile, like she knows he won’t believe her.

“Maybe we can start at the beginning?” Natasha suggests.

“The screaming woke me,” Wanda says. “Before he crashed, he screamed. I heard it inside my head.”

“Who screamed?” Clint asks.

“The one who fell,” Wanda tells him. “He was in pain, I felt it tearing through me. They took his wing.”

“Do you know anything else about this man?” Natasha says carefully and Wanda shakes his head.

“It was only brief. I heard his scream, I felt his pain, and then…” she sighs. “I must have passed out.”

Clint looks at Natasha, Natasha looks back. Of course, the testimony of one woman being held in the psychiatric wing of a hospital for her own safety isn’t exactly the sort of evidence that people consider incontrovertible, but Wanda Maximoff seems to have more information than anyone else in the town.

“My brother found me like that,” she says.

“And that’s when the episodes started?” Natasha asks. Wanda’s eyes narrow. “The report says you’ve been having hallucinations.”

“If that’s what you want to call them,” she says.

“What have you been seeing?”

“Not seeing,” Wanda says. “Hearing.”

“You’ve been hearing voices?” Clint asks, because he always speaks without thinking. Wanda looks at him with an amused smile.

“Yes, and so they locked me up.”

“You’re free to leave at any time,” Natasha says.

“Of course I am,” Wanda says with a roll of her eyes. “But I feel like they’re right about this being the safest place for me right now. Safer than back home, anyway.”. She looks at Clint again. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you? The agony he felt as he fell?”

“I…” Clint stops, then considers the pain that Bucky had pushed into him when he’d woken up screaming the night before. “I think I have.” It makes sense. If what Wanda says is true and Bucky had been that close to the impact, pain like that would have imprinted on him just like it seems to have hit Wanda, the shock of it could even be responsible for the amnesia. And the other feelings he had conveyed, they could have come from whatever it was that fell as well.

“They are searching for him,” Wanda tells him. “They are all searching for him.” She tilts her head to look at him. “They want what he hid from them. Some of them want to destroy it, some of them want to use it…”

“You hear them talking about this?” Natasha asks.

“Not everything… it’s like… being half tuned in to a radio channel,” Wanda sighs, reaching for her drink again. Her hands are shaking as she brings the mug up to sip from. “I know that there is evil coming for him, and that there is good. And I know that what it is he hid must stay hidden or else something terrible will happen.”

“You didn’t hear anything more specific?” Natasha asks. “No names? No places? Not even what it is they are looking for?”

“They called it the cube,” Wanda says. “And that it was hidden, that’s all I know.”

The door swings open and a pale-haired young man walks in, his sharp eyes immediately looking between them with suspicion.

“What do you want with my sister?” he demands.

“Pietro,” Wanda says, but he’s crossing his arms over his chest and stepping forwards into Clint’s space.

“You want to lock her up as well?” he asks.

“We’re just asking questions,” Clint tells him.

“I know what you lot are like. Sure, you’ll ask your questions, then you’ll lock her up, too.” His face is full of a hatred Clint’s all too familiar with. “She hasn’t done anything. She’s been in here the whole time. So go back to your desks and stop looking for someone to blame.”

“We know she hasn’t done anything,” Natasha says. “No one’s saying she has. We just wanted to find out what she knew about the meteorite.”

“Meteorite?” the guy says with a smirk. “You think it was a meteorite. You’re all so stupid, you federal agents.”

“Pietro!” Wanda half shouts and he steps back, holding up his hands, but still smirking slightly.

“Fine, ask your questions.”

“We were about done, actually,” Natasha tells him with a quirk of her lips. She pulls a business card out of her pocket and presses it onto the bed besides Wanda. “If you hear anything else that might help, Miss Maximoff, please call us.”

“Yeah, right,” Pietro scoffs.

They leave, but right before Clint closes the door behind him, Wanda calls out to him.

“Agent Barton… they know you’re here,” she says. “Be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name,” he tells her because for a second he thinks that will sound cool. It doesn’t. He winces as he hears Pietro’s laughter, and closes the door.

On the other side, Natasha has an eyebrow raised, so she heard it too. Great. Today is going perfectly.

*

“Still think it was a phoenix?” Natasha asks, because she just has to rub it in. Clint scowls at the side of her head, but for once, her eyes are only on the road.

“Still not willing to tell me your theory?” Clint asks. Natasha pauses, her mouth straightening and her shoulders stiffening.

“I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a dragon,” she tells him. “It might be something more… fairytale.”

“Because dragons don’t seem like a fairytale.” Clint raises his eyebrows incredulously. That wasn’t an answer and she knows it.

“Dragons are just another kind of animal,” she says. “There are weirder animals in the world than dragons. The slow loris has poisonous elbows, there are parasitic wasps that can literally mind control creatures with their sting, and there’s a slug that literally fires love arrows like Cupid. Dragons would just be another weird animal.”

“That makes me uncomfortable,” Clint admits, because he has to live in this world and he’s not sure he wants to meet an animal that’s weirder than a dragon.

“A lot of things make you uncomfortable.”

“Because I am a sensible human being,” Clint tells her. “No one should hear about mind control wasps without being uncomfortable.” He sighs and considers what they know. “Do you think Bucky might know something more about this ‘cube’ thing?”

“Perhaps,” Natasha says, her eyes caught on something outside of the car.

“He mentioned a blue light, but nothing about a cube. Maybe he doesn’t know.”

“Maybe you should ask him,” Natasha says, pushing the brakes.

“What?” Clint asks blankly.

“There,” she nods out and Clint follows her gaze to see Bucky, in the middle of nowhere, walking along the edge of a field, one hand held out to his side. “What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says, shrugging. “I only met him yesterday. Why are you stopping?”

“You should talk to him,” she says.

“You mean  _ we _ should talk to him,” Clint corrects. Natasha shakes her head.

“He won’t talk to me, but you - he likes you.” Clint suppresses his need to ask whether she thinks he really does. He’s not twelve.

She pulls the car to a stop and Bucky turns slowly, shifting his weight like he’s expecting an attack. Clint takes one more look at Natasha, who nods at him to get out of the damn car already, then swings himself out and heads over to where Bucky’s standing. He hears the growl of tires on asphalt as Natasha sets off again.

“She’s just leaving you out here?” Bucky asks, looking upset on Clint’s behalf.

“She’s got things to do,” Clint says with a shrug. It’s true. Someone’s got to follow up with the Sheriff’s department, in fact, Natasha’s kind of doing him a favour if he thinks about it like that.

Bucky looks around them, then back at Clint, clearly concerned.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. Clint takes a second to look at him and then he’s frowning right back, because while Bucky wasn’t exactly relaxed this morning when they left him, he wasn’t like this. He looks like he’s practically vibrating with suppressed nervous energy.

“Bucky… what happened?” Clint asks, coming up closer to him. He doesn’t touch, he learnt that the hard way. All thoughts about angels and what the fuck is going on in this town escape him.

“I… I…” he looks at Clint. “I think I met my friend.”

“The one from your dream?” Clint asks, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

“I was in town,” Bucky says, “when he came up to me. He used my name.”

“Okay, that’s a good sign,” Clint says. “But if he was your friend, where is he now?”

“He said that he had to prepare something,” Bucky says. “He… he told me his name was Steve and that he was glad I was alive. And then he told me things he couldn’t have known, things I didn’t even realise I knew. He had to have known me before.”

“That’s great!” Clint says, but the look on Bucky’s face doesn’t seem to agree. “Why isn’t that great?” he asks.

“He said we were trapped.”

Aw hell, that sounds ominous as fuck.

“How?” Clint asks carefully.

“I don’t know!” Bucky snaps, his hand goes up to grip into his hair, tugging against it and Clint winces at how hard he’s pulling. “He said  _ Hydra _ were here, looking for something, some cube - I didn’t understand - and they’d put up a barrier around the whole town so we couldn’t get out.” Clint doesn’t even know where to start with that. “And  _ look _ ,” Bucky says. He raises a fist and flings it out to his side, as though whacking it against something and it stops… in midair. Clint blinks. He can see Bucky’s muscles straining, as though he’s pushing with all his might, but his fist isn’t budging.

Clint holds his own hand out and meets no resistance.

Bucky beats and beats against thin air, his face getting more and more agitated.

“I don’t know what he was talking about,” he says. “I don’t know who Hydra are and I can’t get out.”

He drops to his knees, heaving in breaths, and Clint drops down as well.

“How much do you trust Steve?” Clint asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admits, looking up at Clint. “I couldn’t see him, like I do you. He said it was because he was protected, the same way I am. But he knew things, and he was happy to see me. He was worried about me.”

“The way you see me?” Clint asks, a little confused.

Bucky’s hand reaches out and plants itself in the centre of Clint’s chest, fingers splayed, and Clint feels warmth pour out of it. There’s no fear this time, just warmth.

“I look at people and I see them,” Bucky says, his voice small. “I see past their faces, and they’re made of light.”

“O-kay,” Clint says. He’s officially out of his depth now.

“I knew you were good,” Bucky says. “You glow with it.” Clint blinks twice. “There are a few dark bits, but you’re good in the centre of you.”

“Uh… thanks?” Clint says uncertainly. Bucky smiles at him, a lopsided smile that’s a little bit hopeless.

“And your partner, she’s good too, but it’s more… blurred.” Bucky shrugs.

“But you couldn’t see Steve like that?” Clint asks and Bucky shakes his head. “And he told you that something called Hydra was looking for a cube and they’d shut you in here. Then what? He just left? How could he do that, if they’d shut you in?”

“He had to go talk to someone about-” Bucky starts, but Clint’s eyes are caught by something in the field - within that invisible boundary of Bucky’s. The way the grass is moving. He frowns at it for a moment before he realises that it’s swaying against the breeze, not with it, like… like something’s moving through it.

Clint opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, something sharp digs into his arm, pulling him off his feet and into the long grass.

Bucky shouts his name. Clint tries to shout back, but something warm and damp is wrapped around his throat, cutting off his voice so all that comes out is half a noise.

He looks around himself frantically as he’s dragged across the rough ground, but sees nothing. He is held by nothing. Rocks gouge into his back as he struggles, thrashing in the grip of… whatever this is.

He hits out at thin air and his fist connects, just enough for whatever is wound around his neck to relax slightly. He gasps for air and shouts Bucky’s name before it tightens again.

The claws grasping his arm dig in, and he knows that they break the skin, can feel the warm wetness of blood and he grasps for them desperately, trying to pry them away from his body.

Finally, the dragging stops, but Clint barely has a moment of relief before something lands on his body, heavy and unyielding, crushing the air from his lungs and pushing him down into the earth, raking its claws into his chest, cutting his shirt to ribbons and leaving bloody rivulets in its wake. He still sees nothing above him but sky. Anyone watching would see his chest slice itself open spontaneously. There is nothing there, but there is. He can feel its breath in his face, the thick stench of sulphur and something drips down onto his cheek, burning. Clint knows, with the instinctive fear of his lizard brain, that there is something huge right above him, something predatorial, breathing into his face.

His arms, are free, though, so he grabs his gun, even as he hears Bucky thundering towards him, and he pulls it out, shoots straight up again and again and something shrieks, this unearthly, sound that cuts into his ears and right down inside of him, like he can hear it in his soul - if there is such a thing, and Clint’s starting to come round to the idea.

Thick, hot liquid drips onto him and then Bucky’s there, tackling whatever it is right off him and they - Bucky and the invisible monster, go tumbling into the grass. Clint tries to sit up, but his body protests, he tries to aim to shoot, but he can see nothing but Buck, lifting a rock above his head and bringing it down again and again until…

He cannot see the monster, but he can see when it burns, when glowing cinders and ash dissolve on the wind and it drifts away, dropping Bucky to the ground, breathing heavily, on his knees.

As Clint’s throat protests, he manages to get out three words.

“What. The. Fuck?”

*


	3. Revelation

For all he works in The Pit, Clint’s never really come up against anything super weird. There’s been the odd psychic who knows a bit more than they should, a couple of hauntings with no definitive proof, and a lot of mysterious deaths that they never exactly solved. That’s one of the reasons they’re not exactly respected. Their solve rate is way below the average, and whenever they do actually solve one it turns out… well, it turns out it shouldn’t have been their case in the first place. It means Fury and Hill have to fight for every bit of their funding and they risk getting closed down at least five times a year.

So, being ripped apart by an invisible monster is… new.

Hell, this whole thing is new, but this is the first part that’s actually been tangible, the first part where he’s looked at something, experienced something, and thought ‘this is impossible’ and had his brain do the bendy thing.

Clint knows he’s in shock as Bucky helps him to his feet. He’s been in shock before. These aren’t even the worst injuries he’s had, hands down that goes to the time Clint got hit by the truck (not as dramatic as it sounds). But this is… different. It all feels very real now.

“What was that?” he asks, staring at the place where it had dissolved into ash. Bucky hooks an arm under his shoulders and starts to drag him along, looking around wildly.

“That’s what they shut us in here with,” Bucky says.

“But it’s dead,” Clint points out. “So... go us?” He tries to pump his fist in the air, but it pulls at one of the gouges in his chest and he reels, dizziness tilting his world wildly.

“I highly doubt that’s the only one,” Bucky tells him. “Steve said-”

“So we’re trusting Steve now?” Clint asks. His voice sounds far away. Shock is the worst.

“Everything he’s said so far has been true,” Bucky points out. “He said I was shut in here; he said things were coming for me.”

“They actually came for me,” Clint points out, looking down at where his shirt hangs off him in bloody ribbons. The cuts don’t look too bad; whatever it was had only just got started before he’d managed to shoot it. A couple of them might scar, but nothing made it deep enough to cause problems. 

“I know,” Bucky tells him, voice tight.

“I need to call Natasha,” Clint says, realising it as they stumble across the field. It should have been his first thought, but everything’s a little switched around in his head right now. He fumbles his phone from his pocket. He can’t tell if the screen is more cracked than usual or not, but decides it doesn’t matter.

There’s no phone signal, because of course there isn’t.

“We could flag down a car,” he suggests, but the look Bucky gives him indicates that that is not an option. “Or not.”

They walk back to the motel, and Clint’s glad none of his injuries are too bad, or he would have died on the way. He’s still a little light-headed, though, and he’s pretty sure Bucky’s carrying ninety percent of his weight. The journey also seems to go far more quickly than it should, which probably means he’s been losing consciousness.

About halfway to the motel, Clint realises that Bucky’s been touching his bare skin this whole time. Well, that’s not entirely true, he’d realised that straight off the bat, the touch of Bucky’s skin against his making his insides swoop in a not entirely advisable way - though that may just be nausea. It’s halfway back when he realises the consequences of that.

“Oh shit,” he says, and Bucky turns to stare at him.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“I just… you’re getting all of this, aren’t you?” Clint asks. “With your freaky empath powers, you can feel all… this,” he waves a hand at himself.

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, hefting him up again as though he weighs next to nothing, as though Bucky is the bigger one, when Clint’s got half a foot on him, but that doesn’t seem to bother him at all. It’s sexy, which is inappropriate to be thinking right now, but Clint’s bad at keeping his brain under control at the best of times.

“Naw, man. I’m sorry,” Clint says, drooping as much as he can in Bucky’s firm grip. “I feel like shit and now you’ve got to carry me back and feel all of this and it must suck to be you… Aw, no, I said that wrong. I mean it must suck to feel all these things that aren’t yours.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says again.

“No it isn’t,” Clint says. “I mean, you’ve got all your shit going on with the amnesia and the nightmares and creepy friends called Steve who show up to give you cryptic warnings and I’m just… getting my feelings all over you.”

“I said it’s fine,” Bucky tells him, then sighs. “Look, I don’t remember, right?”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, not sure where this is going.

“So I don’t remember not feeling other people in my head,” Bucky tells him. “And I don’t mind… not if it’s you. Believe me, this ain’t anything next to the pain I’ve felt before.”

Clint remembers that pain and shivers at the thought. He runs his hand over Bucky’s back, right where the red mark probably still is, and Bucky shivers too.

“Nothing makes any sense,” Bucky goes on. “But I know you’re trouble and I’ve got to protect you. That’s what I’ve got right now, so stop fucking apologising.”

“You mean I’m  _ in _ trouble,” Clint says.

“I said what I meant,” Bucky tells him.

“Right,” Clint says, then just concentrates on  _ feeling _ as sorry as he can.

“Stop it,” Bucky tells him.

“I didn’t apologise,” Clint protests.

“You know what you did.”

Clint grins as Bucky rolls his eyes and they start moving again.

They don’t exactly announce their presence when they get back to the motel, although Clint catches a couple of people giving them curious looks and flashes his badge at them. Official FBI business, obviously. Haven’t they ever seen a man with his shirt ripped off before?

Bucky gets them into the room and lowers Clint onto the bed with far more care than he really deserves and heads straight into the tiny bathroom. Clint, for his part, stares at the ceiling and thinks very carefully about what the fuck is going on.

He considers what they’ve found, and what they’ve heard. A feather, long and able to survive a fire that incinerated two cows, a woman who saw a dragon - or a winged creature that breathed blue fire, the wing marks in the crater, and Wanda Maximoff who hears the voices, talking about ‘him’ who had fallen, who had hidden something, who people were searching for.

And Bucky… Bucky who woke up right next to the crater, who feels that pain in his back, who doesn’t remember anything before the crater, who was found twice - once by a friend, once by an invisible monster, and Clint feels himself crushed under how  _ stupid _ he’s been.

Bucky comes back with towels and water and Clint looks at him as he hooks his hair behind an ear. His face looks softer here, staring down at Clint’s wounds as though they are a personal affront to him. Objectively, if Clint can be objective about these things, he’s beautiful. It makes sense, if he’s… more than human.

Clint thinks about the livid red mark on his back and thinks about ‘people with wings’ and his brain stutters even as his hand reaches out in something that might be awe.

Even as he’s crushing his own little daydreams.

Because Clint never went to Sunday School, sure, but he knows the word for a person with wings.

Bucky starts to wipe the blood from Clint’s chest and it burns enough to cut through Clint’s thoughts for a second, making him hiss.

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes, his voice low, as though he doesn’t want to break the quiet. Clint shrugs.

“Gotta be done,” he says. “There any disinfectant in-”

“What the fuck?” Bucky says, his voice clear and firm. He’s still staring at Clint’s chest and Clint hopes for a second, that he hasn’t forgotten about any more tattoos - before he remembers that Bucky’s looking at his abs right now, and even Clint would notice if he had a tattoo on his abs, so he looks down as well, and… huh, he’d thought there were more cuts than that. Maybe it was just the blood.

Bucky reaches out a hand, two fingers extended, his eyes wide and his mouth open a little. His fingers touch Clint’s skin very gently, barely a whisper of a touch, right next to one of the wounds, and Clint feels that burning sensation again.

And as he watches, the cut closes right up.

“Holy shit,” Clint says. Bucky looks up at him and Clint looks back.

Well that answers that. Literally ‘holy’…  _ shit _ .

“What just happened?” Bucky asks.

“You just saved me a hospital bill,” Clint says, because there was no way Natasha was going to let him get out of this one without being checked for sepsis (which he’ll allow is probably sensible).

“How did I do that?” Bucky asks.

“Uh…” Clint says, unable to work out the best way to say ‘I think you’re an angel,’ without it sounding a) like a come on, or b) like Clint has actually lost his mind. Bucky lowers his fingers again, his face going from shocked to determined, and Clint’s chest burns as another cut knits itself together, and another, until they’re all gone and Bucky’s staring at Clint’s chest, still smeared with drying blood, but completely intact, his mouth a hard line.

“Thanks,” Clint says.

It breaks the moment, Bucky looks at him and laughs, a small, derisive chuckle.

“No, seriously, thanks,” Clint repeats. “You have no idea how much I hate hospitals.”

“Why aren’t you more scared by this?” Bucky asks, looking at him. “You can’t tell me this is normal. Monsters are attacking you and I can… Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“Oh I am,” Clint says. “I’m just… I’ve got a lot going on right now. I figured I’d freak out when the timing’s worse.”

“What?” Bucky asks.

“Eh, nothing’s actively trying to kill me at the moment,” Clint says. “That’s when I’ll freak out.”

“So you’re not okay with me being…”

“Awesome?” Clint supplies in the gap. “Seriously, you have magic healing powers, what’s not to like. High five!” He raises his hand, but Bucky just looks at it and folds his arms over his chest, looking down at Clint in a judging sort of way. Clint waits a second until it’s clear Bucky is definitely going to leave him hanging, then lowers his hand, pushing himself up into a sitting position, which brings his and Bucky’s faces far closer together. Close enough that Clint can see exactly how much blue is in the grey of his eyes.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Bucky says, looking past Clint at the wall behind him. His jaw is clenched and he’s sitting ramrod straight. “You should be scared of me.”

“Why?” Clint asks.

“Because I can do these things,” Bucky says. “Because I killed  _ that thing _ out there by the barrier. Because I don’t know where I came from or who I am and you just let me…” he gestures down at Clint’s body.

“I figure the person with the awesome healing powers is probably a good person to know,” Clint says. “And you killed whatever the invisible monster was to  _ save my life _ . So why would I be scared of you?”

Bucky looks at him, and Clint remembers when they had first met and Bucky had looked at him then, too, exactly like he’s looking now, like he can see right through Clint and into his battered, worthless soul.

Which maybe he can - he is an angel after all.

Clint’s heart sinks as he thinks about that, because there is no way an angel is going to think Clint is worthy of anything. The only reason Bucky hasn’t ditched him yet is because he doesn’t remember who he is. Clint should definitely tell him, except then Bucky’s going to go off and do angel things with his angel friends and-

The touch of lips against his makes him jump. Too lost in his own brain to notice Bucky pressing in closer. His eyes focus again, almost going cross eyed as they find Bucky so very close, looking at him hesitantly, like he’s not sure what Clint’s reaction is going to be.

Clint is bad at impulse control.

Kissing Bucky is… it’s the closest thing Clint has ever felt to bliss. He can feel Bucky’s wonder as they touch, feel the tentative emotions that drift into him, feel his own wonder and awe in there too. It’s gentle and soft for a second, before there’s a stab of lust that tugs in Clint’s abdomen, and he’s not sure if it’s his or Buckys - but it must be his - and the kiss turns deep and desperate and more than a little dirty. Bucky crawls onto Clint’s lap, like he can’t get close enough, as though it’s not enough, even when Clint feels closer to Bucky than he’s ever felt to anyone, even as one single solitary kiss feels more intimate than anything he’s ever done before.

His hands grab onto Bucky’s shoulders for dear life as the waves of sensation and emotion threaten to knock him over, He can feel Bucky’s hands in his hair, Bucky’s solid weight on his thighs, Bucky’s tongue delving deep into his mouth with a hunger Clint can only echo right back. There is not enough, he feels. And Bucky’s hands are finding the torn edges of his shirt and ripping it right off him, which makes Clint’s lust surge up again as Bucky’s hands roam feverishly over his skin.

His hips are grinding up into Bucky’s heat, chasing sensation and his hands are sliding down to cup at Bucky’s ass. An angel’s ass, he thinks.

And the thought stops him cold.

It’s like ice water pouring over him.

Clint is not a good person. He’s come to terms with that, popped the balloons of his childish dreams and settled for being the kind of person that tries not to fuck too much stuff up instead. He’s not well versed in religion or ethics or morals, or any of that shit. He couldn’t argue philosophy over a bottle of whiskey. But he’s pretty sure that groping an angel’s ass, especially an angel who’s lost, alone and doesn’t even know what they are, is a front row seat in hell kind of a deal.

Taking advantage of anyone that vulnerable is a front row seat in hell kind of deal.

He pulls his hands back and stares up at Bucky’s betrayed face.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks. “I thought... “ Bucky pauses and looks down at his hands, before standing up and backing away as quickly as he can. “Did I… make you do that?”

Clint can’t keep the jagged laugh from breaking free, because of course Bucky thinks it’s his fault. 

“Pretty sure it was the other way round, actually,” he says. “Sorry about that, I’m a mess.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I shouldn’t have.”

“If anyone was taking advantage here, it was me,” Clint says. “You’re… shit, you don’t even know who you are and I offered you a room for the night and now I’m shoving my creepy feelings at you.” He rubs at his head. “I’m sorry. I should… I’ll stay in Natasha’s room tonight.”

“That’s not what happened,” Bucky says.

“Pretty sure it is,” Clint tells him.

“I kissed you,” Bucky tells him.

  
“Because I wanted you to,” Clint says.

“No,” Bucky’s voice is firm and hard, his face is set and determined. “I kissed you because  _ I  _ wanted to.”

“Are you sure?” Clint says. “You don’t even know what you  _ are _ .”

“I’m…” Bucky pauses. “What do you mean,  _ what _ I am?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. Clint freezes, his mouth half open. His shoulders slump and he sighs.

“I mean, it’s a guess,” he says. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I mean… Natasha and I have been poking around, that’s what we do. What we’re paid to do, anyway. Sometimes we poke more than others. It’s…”

“Spit it out,” Bucky says.

“The mark on your back, the… other stuff…” Clint winces. The words seem so ridiculous now he’s going to say them out loud. “Uh… you could be… sort of… angelic?”

“Angelic?” Bucky asks slowly. His voice is low and devoid of emotion.

“Well, more like an actual angel and-”

“No,” Bucky says shaking his head. “I’m not… that’s not right.”

“It fits all the facts,” Clint tells him.

Bucky shakes his head again and looks at him.

“I’m not-” he starts again, and cuts himself off. “I’ve got to go,” he says, and then he turns and walks out of the room before Clint can even ask him where. He’s got to hope that Steve, whoever he is, is looking out for him, because Clint didn’t even get a chance to explain the part where Bucky hid something and everyone really wants to find it and, according to the lady in the hospital, that would be bad.

He sighs and flops back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling again with its oddly shaped damp stains. It’s been a long fucking day.

*

Clint’s nightmares are usually mundane things. The sort of things everyone with a shitty childhood and a dangerous job has nightmares about: his Dad, Natasha getting shot, all his teeth falling out. This one is different, not least because he  _ knows _ he’s dreaming.

The fire is surrounding him and dark creatures prowl through it, he can see their eyes like black fire, and he knows that wouldn’t make sense anywhere outside the dream world. The ring of flames is closing in on him, and he can’t breathe because every breath scorches his lungs. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out. He tries to run, but there is nowhere to go that isn’t fire.

He runs anyway, jumps across the fire and feels it scorching his skin, burning down to his bones. The dark creatures with their black-fire eyes pick up the chase, howling in a key that makes his soul ache. They do not come for him - yet, keeping pace with an ease that clearly says that Clint is only being allowed to run because they find it amusing.

He runs anyway. He runs until his legs collapse under him and he waits for the feeling of claws and teeth tearing into him, clenching his eyes closed.

Brilliant, burning white light sears across his vision and sound screams in his ears, although his ears haven’t been able to hear that clearly in years. He can feel the light like a physical force, pushing at him. He tries to cover his eyes, but nothing can block out the light, it goes straight through him and he is being burnt away.

He opens his mouth and screams.

*

There are no stains on the ceiling when he opens his eyes.

In fact… there is something wrong with everything in the motel room. He can’t work out what, but it seems… cleaner somehow. The colours are crisper, like this is what it looked like when the place was first decorated, shiny and new.

And sitting in a chair on the other side of the room is a man.

Clint likes to think he has pretty good body image. He might eat more pizza than is strictly advisable for a guy in his thirties, but he keeps in shape. That’s part of the job. His shirts tend to run too tight in the arms and across his chest and he has never had anyone complain about his physique. Except Natasha, but she doesn’t count.

The guy sitting opposite him makes Clint look like a guy who gets out of breath climbing the stairs. He’s tall, blonde and righteous looking. Clint never knew someone could look righteous before, but for some reason, that’s the word coming into his head.

“Clint Barton,” the guy says.

“Hi,” Clint replies, wiggling his fingers in a little wave. “Where are we? Because this place is way nicer than where I went to sleep.”

“You’re exactly where you were when you went to sleep,” the man says. “I just… made it look a little nicer.” He pauses.

“Right…” Clint says, looking around. “Thanks, I guess. And thanks for waking me up. That was one hell of a nightmare.”

“You’d been infected by one of Hydra’s corruptions,” the guy says. “Sorry I wasn’t quicker. I managed to burn it out, but not before it attacked.” He actually looks a bit sheepish about that, which is an odd expression on a face clearly built for righteous certainty.

“Demon soul virus, got it,” Clint says. “Excellent. Do you have other dream-manipulating powers? Like if I asked you for the best pizza ever, could you-”

“Clint, I need you to focus,” the man says.

“Who are you?” Clint asks. “I think I’d remember meeting you.”

“You can call me Steve.”

“You’re Steve, holy shit!” Clint says. “You’re… oh shit, are you an angel too?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit,” Clint repeats, because it seems appropriate. “Why are you talking to me? Oh fuck, did you see? I’m sorry, I should have just… I swear I stopped as soon as I realised. I wasn’t going to-”

“Clint,” Steve says, cutting through Clint’s slightly panicked lack of explanation. “Is Bucky okay?”

“He was last time I saw him,” Clint says. “Well, he was freaked out about the angel thing - I’m not sure he believed me, but he was physically okay. Why? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, something’s blocking me from speaking to him,” Steve says. He notices Clint staring at him and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but… I kind of thought angels would be more… glowy eldritch beings of immense power and horror… or at least wings. I thought there would be wings. And more eyes...”

“We… look more human when we come to earth,” Steve says. “This is what my earthly incarnation looks like. You’ve seen Bucky.”

“Yeah, I’ve… yeah,” Clint has definitely seen Bucky. He realises that his mind is going to impure places in front of an  _ angel _ of all things and tries to rein it in. “Mmhm, definitely seen Bucky. In a completely normal human way.” Steve looks amused. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“No,” Steve leans forwards, his face set in this expression that makes Clint immediately want to do whatever he says to the best of his ability. “You need to watch out for him. He’s vulnerable right now, without his memories, without his wing. There are people coming for him.”

“Demons?” Clint asks, because that’s got to be it, but Steve frowns.

“Other angels.”

“What?”

“It’s complicated,” Steve says, his mouth twisting. “It’s political.” He says the word like it’s a curse.

“So that invisible thing that tried to tear my heart out… was an angel?”

“Invisible thing?” Steve asks, sitting up straight in alarm. “What invisible thing?”

Clint tries his best to describe it, although it’s difficult given the whole invisibility issue. Steve’s expression grows more and more concerned.

“They’ve put up a barrier,” he agrees. “Only two of us made it in before it went up, I thought it was just angels in here, I didn’t know they’d brought in hellhounds. That explains the corruption you were exposed to.”

“Hellhounds,” Clint echoes. Usually he likes dogs. Usually dogs like him. That’s upsetting. He can still remember the smell of its breath. The lights in the room flicker and Steve looks around them.

“Don’t think about them.”

“Oh shit, is it like one of those things where if you think about it you summon it?” Clint asks, looking around, though what he thinks he’d see is anyone’s guess, the damn things are invisible. Clint laughs, because for the first time ever ‘damn’ is actually a literal description. Huh.

“Yes,” Steve says, deadly serious. Clint gulps. Then he looks around, at something Clint can’t see. “I have to go.”

“But you haven’t told me anything about… well, anything,” Clint says. “I mean thanks for popping by and all, but next time maybe be less vague. Like any idea how I hold off angels and hellhounds? Answers on a postcard, please.”

“Run away,” Steve says. “And pray.”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?” Clint asks. Steve raises an eyebrow.

“What do you-” Steve looks away again. He seems to be listening to something, but Clint can’t make it out.

It’s then that Clint realises he can’t feel the pressure of his hearing aids in his ears and even with his aids, there’s no way this conversation should be this clear. He puts one hand to his ear, but there’s just skin there, no hard plastic.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” he says.

“Yes,” Steve agrees. “And it’s time to wake up.”

Clint wakes up.

The stains are back on the ceiling and his hearing’s back to its usual crappy self, but his hearing aids are sitting on the bedside table just where he’d left them. The sun is shining through the shitty motel curtains right into his face and he remembers the brilliance of the light before he’d dreamt of Steve. He wonders if that was Steve too, or just his glowy angelic powers.

He should be questioning it, because dreams are not the most reliable evidence they’ve got. If someone else came up to him and said they’d dreamt they’d been visited by an angel called Steve, he would laugh. But there is something in his head that tells him that yes, Steve was a dream and yes, Steve was real. He was both at the same time, if that’s even possible.

And all he had asked was for Clint to help Bucky, and Clint has no clue where Bucky even went. So first all he has to do is go on a mission from God to find an angel that doesn’t want to be found. Easy.

*

It actually turns out to be easier than Clint had thought. Bucky is sitting on a bench outside the motel room, watching clouds form and move across the bright blue sky. He doesn’t look as Clint sits down next to him, but does hand him a coffee. Clint doesn’t ask where he got it, who is he to question the ways of angels or coffee. What’s that old phrase? Don’t look a gift angel in the mouth? The coffee is hot and bitter and black as his fucking soul… or not, it feels a bit strange to make that comparison when sitting next to an actual angel.

He’s getting distracted again and shakes his head.

“I need your help,” Bucky says. Clint looks at him in surprise. “I… I think I’m being summoned,” he says.

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Clint tells him. Bucky shrugs. “What does that even mean?”

“There’s something at the back of my mind telling me I need to go somewhere,” Bucky says. “I… I’d appreciate some backup.”

“Sure,” Clint says, downing the rest of his coffee. “It’s this or write up progress reports with Natasha.” He makes a face. Progress reports are the worst, and it’s not like Coulson even cares how he writes them anyway. The information always gets across, but apparently his language isn’t professional enough. Whatever, the guy driving that truck really was a motherfucking prick, there weren’t any other words that conveyed that properly. 

He’s not sure what he’s really got to bring to this partnership, though. Bucky’s the all powerful magical being or whatever. All Clint has is a gun and a careless disregard for his own safety, or that’s what his last performance review said.

“Where is this ‘somewhere’?” he asks, and Bucky shrugs again.

“I’ll know when I get there,” he says. It’s not the most helpful answer in the world, but it’s pretty to the point. Clint guesses he just has to have faith. Again, not his strong suit.

“Got a direction?” Clint asks. Bucky points, which is definitely more useful than the whole ‘I’ll just know’ thing he had thought was going on. Directions he can work with. “Alright, then let’s go.”

Bucky’s instincts lead them through the town, zigzagging down streets past what Clint suspects are the highlights of the town. There aren’t many. You can see from the boarded up shops and broken windows that this is a town that isn’t coping with the digital revolution. People are packing up and leaving. Although the meteorite seems to have attracted some newcomers, he supposes, seeing the women from the crater - Darcy and Jane - heading into a small diner, bickering with each other while an older man waits for them, holding the door open.

Bucky moves with utter certainty, taking every turn as though he knows exactly where he’s going. Clint tries to look just as much like he fits in, but word’s got around that the feds are in town and the looks he gets make it pretty clear that everyone knows exactly who he is. On the other hand, no one seems to give Bucky a second glance.

After a good forty minutes of walking, they draw to a halt in front of a boarded up old bookshop. ‘The Book Nook’ is written in loopy, almost illegible writing on the peeling sign. Bucky stops and looks up at it.

“Stay here,” he says.

“I’m not sure that’s a good-” Clint starts, and Bucky turns round to him, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. He feels an eerie sort of calmness flow over him.

“Stay here. I’ll call if I need help,” Bucky says. Clint nods dumbly, then stays where he is as Bucky walks into the abandoned bookshop.

Clint finds a place to lean where he doesn’t look too conspicuous, though no doubt Nat would still roll her eyes at him if she saw him.

It’s barely five minutes before Clint hears footsteps and Bucky’s slamming his way out of the door, grabbing him and dragging him down the street.

“What’s wrong?” Clint asks.

“Don’t look back, keep walking,” Bucky tells him, and they take a circuitous route through town.

“The scenic route is nice and all, but maybe a little more information about what the fuck is going on might be helpful.”

“It was a trap,” Bucky says. Clint swears and looks around, but no one seems to be following them.

“But you’re okay, right? Have they sent another of those… things after us?”

“No,” Bucky says. “They don’t want to hurt me - not yet. They want me to tell them what I know.”

“And what do you know?” Clint asks.

“Nothing! I don’t know anything,” Bucky snaps, the frustration clear in his voice.

“Sorry,” Clint says immediately. “It’s just… my job to ask questions. Sorry.”

Bucky shoves them down a side street and backs Clint up against the wall.

“There was a… person in there,” he says. “People - two of them - and they said they were my friends.”

“Okay,” Clint says.

“One of them said he was Steve, but he can’t have been Steve, because I’ve already met Steve.”

“Oh,” Clint says, thinking carefully. “Are you sure?”

“He can’t be,” Bucky said. “This one only wanted to know where the cube was.”

“But you don’t know that,” Clint says. Bucky shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know. I know that the cube is important somehow, but I don’t know why and I don’t know where it is. The… the first Steve, he didn’t care about it except that Hydra was after it; he just asked about me. It was practically the first thing this guy asked about. Steve… I don’t remember much, but I remember that. I know Steve would never put the big picture over the little guy. He...” Bucky shakes his head in a jerky motion. “He’s not Steve.”

“Right,” Clint says. “Uh… is this a good time to say that I think Steve - or maybe Not-Steve? - visited me in a dream?”

“He what?” Bucky asks, eyebrows pulling down over his eyes. “What did he say?”

“He told me that thing that almost ripped me apart yesterday was a hellhound… and he asked where you were,” Clint says.

“Did you tell him?” Bucky asks.

“Difficult to tell him something I didn’t know,” Clint says. “He seemed concerned about you, though. So probably the real one, right?”

“Maybe,” Bucky looks up and down the street. “All I know is that Hydra, whoever they are, can’t find the cube.”

“Right,” Clint agrees. “Which is simple enough, because you don’t know where it is.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I think I did that on purpose.” He frowns again. “I think I knew they were going to come after me, so I removed my own memories so I couldn’t tell them where it was.”

“Wow,” Clint says. “That’s… fuck…” he looks into Bucky’s eyes. “Whatever I can do to help you, I will.”

“You don’t even know that I’m the good guy,” Bucky says. “ _ I _ don’t know if I’m the good guy. What if the people I hid it from are the good guys?”

“I’m pretty sure good guys don’t send invisible monster dogs after people,” Clint says, his hand rising to brush over where he can still feel the echoes of claws tearing into his flesh if he thinks about it for too long. Bucky’s hand grasps his, holds it firm where it is, right over Clint’s heart.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Bucky says. He’s looking up at Clint with the strangest look in his eyes, a fierce determination that makes him look ten times as hot, which is unfair to Clint in literally every way. But now he’s questioning how he didn’t realise the guy was not entirely human from the get go. He’s just too perfect to be human. “You know that feeling I had when I first saw you?” Clint nods. “I think I know what it means now.”

“What?” Clint asks.

“It was a warning,” Bucky says. His smile is sad and rueful, putting Clint on edge. Whatever Bucky’s about to say isn’t going to be something he wants to hear. “But it wasn’t for you, like I thought. It was for me. It was warning me to stay away or I’d get you killed.”

“What?” Clint says.

“I can feel you,” Bucky says, tightening his fingers on Clint’s hand just a little. “I know how far you’re willing to go, and you can’t, not for me.”

“That’s not…” Clint draws in a deep breath. “There are hellhounds, and some kind of political angel war is going on, I can’t stand back and let that just… happen.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Bucky asks, and that is the question of the hour.

“I’m going to make sure you’re not doing this alone,” Clint says. “I’m going to be your back up, like you asked me to be.”

“I was wrong,” Bucky says. “I’ve got Steve. We’ll be okay. We’re… angels or something, aren’t we?”

“So now you believe me?” Clint says.

“Not sure what else there is in this world I can believe, but yes,” Bucky says.

“Then trust me to help you,” Clint says as earnestly as he can. Bucky smiles at him.

“Sorry, doll,” he says, leaning in close and Clint’s heartbeat kicks up a notch. “Not this time.”

Their lips connect and it’s just as disorientating as it was the first time. Clint’s stomach twists and he leans forwards for more. But unlike last time, there is this fierce sense of longing and loss in the kiss, and apology, deeply rooted under all of it.

Clint feels the darkness reaching up for him as his knees buckle and Bucky gently lowers him to the ground, muttering an apology against his cheek.

Clint’s last thought before he falls unconscious is ‘motherfucker’, which is probably blasphemy.


	4. Trust

Clint doesn’t know how long Bucky knocks him out for, but he comes around cursing and the brunette from the meteor site is standing over him. Darcy, he thinks her name is. He tries to smile at her, but it’s difficult when he’s still swearing.

“Thank god,” she says. “Thought I was going to have to tase you.”

Clint groans as he pushes himself to his feet and brushes down his suit, which doesn’t help much, but makes him feel a bit better.

“Not sure that would have woken me up,” he says.

“You look rough,” Darcy says, looking him up and down. “What’s the matter, G-man?”

“Did you see the guy I was with?” he asks.

“Why? Is he cute? Rich? Secretly an alien?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows. Clint blinks at her.

“Yes, no, and no,” he answers, because angels and aliens are definitely different things. He’s pretty sure. Although they do both come from different worlds and are non-human people, so maybe the answer to the last one should be a ‘probably’ rather than a ‘no’, but then again, that’s almost certainly confidential.

“Didn’t see anyone but you,” she says, watching Clint as he raises his fingers to his lips, feeling the outline of a kiss still on them. It’s not the first time someone’s kissed him in order to betray his trust, and it probably won’t be the last, given Clint’s stupid habit of running at inappropriate people heart first… or dick first, sometimes it’s dick first, although that sounds wrong, so he guesses he’ll stick with heart.

He swears colourfully as her words resolve themselves into making sense in his head. Of course Bucky’s long gone. He’s a freaking angel, he’s got all sorts of angelic powers at his disposal even if he doesn’t remember who he is. Clint should probably just be grateful he didn’t wipe Clint’s memories as well. Unless he did. Maybe before he woke up, Clint knew more about what was going on.

That’s the kind of thought that’ll make your head hurt, so he decides to leave it be and pretend that he’s definitely got all his memories.

Which leaves Clint adrift in a series of events that are way above his pay grade.

He tries his phone again, but there’s no signal - again. There had definitely been signal in town yesterday.

“Do you have reception?” he asks, waving his phone at Darcy. She obligingly fishes her phone out and pouts at the screen as it becomes clear that she does not. “Not just me then. At least that’s something.” It’s clear from Darcy that she does not agree with that sentiment.

Unless, of course, the lack of cell reception is less a network problem and more an angel kind of problem. He hadn’t had cell reception yesterday either, as they made their way back from the boundary. He had just thought it was because they were out on the edges of town, but what if it’s more nefarious than that? The boundary literally stops angels from crossing, a few little radio waves wouldn’t be that much more effort, surely.

He needs to find Natasha.

“You need a hand?” Darcy asks. “You look like someone kicked you in the balls and stole your wallet.”

“That’s a very specific look,” Clint says, but she just shrugs.

“You relate things back to your own experience, y’know.”

“You were kicked in the balls and your wallet was stolen?” Clint asks.

“Nope,” Darcy tells him. Clint opens his mouth to respond and then decides that it’s probably a better idea just to let it go, he’s almost certain that the answer will make him wince, a thought that is in no way averted by Darcy’s serene, innocent smile.

“I don’t suppose you know where my partner is,” he says. “Red hair, pretty, about this tall,” he holds his hand up to indicate. Darcy frowns.

“I did see a redhead a while ago,” she says. “She was… around.”

“Descriptive,” Clint says. Darcy shrugs.

“Sorry, my dude. I wasn’t really paying attention, there were waffles to eat.” Clint has to admit that that’s a decent reason and nods. Waffles are very distracting. In fact, he might-

“Agent Barton,” a voice says and Clint is reaching for his gun as he turns. What he sees is not what he is expecting, though. It’s not an angel, or at least, he doesn’t think so, but he does recognise the young woman standing ten foot away.

“Miss Maximoff?” he says slowly. She’s dressed differently from when he last saw her, ripped tights, skirt, red leather jacket and fingerless gloves. Her eyes still look right through him though.

“We don’t have time for waffles,” she says. Her brother appears behind her as though from nowhere and Clint blinks. “Things are about to get much worse.” She draws in a ragged breath and leans against the wall, her brother hovering next to her, seeming almost to vibrate as he does so.

“Okay,” Darcy says. “I can see that this is not my kind of meeting. So I’m just gonna…” she points back the way she came with both hands and then backs away carefully, almost walking into a trashcan. “See you later, Mulder. Good luck finding Scully!” Clint waves at her before turning back to Wanda Maximoff and her brother.

“I thought you were in hospital.”

“Like you said, I wasn’t a prisoner,” Wanda tells him. “And I knew I was needed here.” Her brother scoffs, but Wanda turns an irritated look on him.

“How did you get past the… invisible wall thing?” Clint asks.

“I’m not an angel,” Wanda says.

“Right… so you know what they are now.”

“So do you,” she says.

“This is stupid,” her brother mutters. “We should have left. I told you, if things are that bad, we should just leave them to it.”

“And then what?” Wanda asks, turning to him. “If they get the cube they can rewrite reality, Pietro. We would not be safe, no matter where we were.”

“Wait a second,” Clint says, holding up his hands. “Rewrite reality? I think we need to slow down and talk about this.”

“There is a magic cube, it changes the universe. The angel had it. He fell; he hid it. And now the evil angels are hunting for it,” Pietro says as though it’s just that simple. “Now you’re caught up. Stop moving so slowly, old man.”

Clint is about to make a comment that he’s barely in his thirties, but stops himself at the last minute. The kid’s trying to irritate him and Clint is a government agent, he really shouldn’t let himself be baited.

“So, what do we do about it?” Clint asks. “We don’t know where the cube is. Bucky knocked me out and ditched me, so we’ve got nothing.”

“We haven’t got nothing,” Wanda says. “I can find them.”

“Because you can hear them talking,” Clint says. She nods. “Can you also tell me where Natasha is, because I think I need to speak to her?”

“Agent Romanov is with the angels,” Wanda says, her eyes losing focus for a second.

“I’m going to hope that’s not a euphemism,” Clint says, trying to feel optimistic. “Because if Nat’s dead, I guarantee that we’re all screwed. Instead, I’m going to ask: the good ones or the bad ones?” As the words come out of his mouth his phone buzzes in his hands and he looks at the screen. Natasha is calling. He gives Wanda a suspicious look but she seems as confused by this as he is. Clint swipes the call icon and puts the phone to his ear.

“Nat?”

“Clint, good,” Natasha says. “I know what’s happening.”

“Me too,” he replies.

“Did Bucky remember?” she asks.

“Not really…” Clint says slowly.

“You need to bring him here,” she says. “I’ve found his friends, and things are more complicated than we thought.”

“That might be a problem,” Clint admits, scratching his head with a grimace.

“What might be a problem?” she asks slowly. She’s too used to Clint not to know that’s his way of saying that everything is fucked.

“Getting Bucky there,” he says. “He sort of… knocked me out and ran off?”

She swears creatively in Russian. He’s not sure what goats have to do with anything, but he might steer clear of them while Natasha’s nearby for a few months. 

“Again?” she asks. “You got knocked out  _ again _ ?”

“Hey, in my defence, he kissed me!” Clint splutters. He sees Pietro sniggering and gives him the finger, ignoring the amused purse of Wanda’s mouth. He at least needs to stay on her good side. Her brother, though? Not so much.

“Of course he did,” she says. “Only you, Clint Barton, could be led into a honey trap by an angel.”

“That’s not what it…” Clint starts. There’s a silence on the other end then Nat’s voice comes back.

“Bucky’s friend Steve thinks that the other side might have contacted him first.”

“No, Bucky’s friend Steve is who Bucky’s talking…” Clint trails off.

“Oh fuck,” Clint says. Bucky had been so  _ sure _ that it was Steve. “There are two Steves. Which one are you with?” It’s a stupid question, because Clint has no clue how he could distinguish them even if he had met them.

“They call themselves Steve and Sam,” Natasha says.

“Is Steve the same one who came into my dream?” Clint asks. There’s another pause and Clint wishes his hearing were good enough that he could make out what’s going on on the other end of the line.

“He says yes.”

“And he’s  _ not _ the person Bucky’s been talking to for the past couple of days?” Clint asks and waits as Natasha relays the question.

“He says no. He’s only seen Bucky once, and Bucky ran away as soon as he said his name.”

“Shit,” Clint says with feeling. “How certain are you that you’re with the good guys?” He’ll trust Natasha’s read on the situation, she knows how to read people, and sure angels aren’t exactly human, but they’re still human-shaped.

“They have made convincing arguments,” she says.

“Then either Bucky’s with the bad guys or you are,” Clint says with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “And I let him go.”

“In your defence, he is an angel,” Natasha says, like that’s something you just say out loud. Fuck, their job is weird. “Even if you hadn’t fallen for his kissing tactic, he probably would still have got away from you.”

“I can find him,” Wanda says then and Clint looks up. “I know where they’ve gone.”

He repeats that to Natasha, feeling a little more hopeful.

“Don’t be stupid, Clint,” Natasha says. He knows what she means, but there’s apparently a whole lot more at stake here than they’d originally thought, and Bucky’s there and he has no idea that the people he’s with aren’t really his friends.

“I’ll keep my stunning heroics to the bare minimum,” he promises. She sighs heavily.

“Tell us where it is, we’ll meet you there,” she says. He asks Wanda, but Wanda just shrugs.

“I don’t have an address, I just know where to go,” she says.

“Then text me when you get there,” Natasha says. “Wait for us, we’ll go in together.”

“Yep,” Clint says. To be fair, he fully intends that to be the truth when he says it. He is not lying to Natasha, wouldn’t dream of it. At this point in time, he genuinely means to wait for her and her angel buddies before they go in.

He hangs up, and only realises afterwards that he still has no signal and  _ how did Natasha call him _ ? Clint stares at his phone in alarm, but shakes it off and decides that he is not going to question how angels work..

As he turns to Wanda, it’s as though someone hit the dimmer switch on the sun and the whole world is cast into the eerie steel-grey light of dusk, although his phone had just told him it was barely past dinner time.

“I’m guessing that’s not a good sign,” Clint says, looking up to where it’s like someone has applied a dark filter to the sky.

“No,” Wanda says solemnly. “We should move fast. They’re already moving.”

“Right,” Clint says, looking around. “But where do we go?”

“The fallen angel is in danger,” she says. “He doesn’t remember how to tell his friends from his enemies.”

“But you do?” Clint asks.

“You’re wasting time, Mr Suit,” Pietro says.

“If we’re going anywhere, I want to know we’re going in the right direction,” Clint says. The sky above them seems to be growing darker by the second, though, so that might be a lie. They definitely need to do something, but he knows that hitting the wrong target is often worse than hitting no target at all.

“I know that the intentions of the person he is with are dark,” Wanda says, her eyes going unfocused for a second. “If they succeed in getting him to remember then he will lead them right to the cube.”

“So we have to go and rescue Bucky from demons,” Clint says. “Okay, that… that’s crazy, but at least it makes sense.”

“Now can we move?” Pietro says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Lead the way.”

The town seems to understand that something is going on. Clint doesn’t blame them, there’s an almost electric feeling in the air, like gathering static. Whether it’s the blackening sky or some sort of human instinct for danger, there’s no one on the streets as they make their way to wherever Bucky is. The sky is roiling with dark clouds and every now and then there’s a howl on the air, like a wolf, only bigger and hungrier. Clint remembers that sound and the feeling of claws digging into his flesh.

The further they walk, the closer the howls seem to be.

Clint wonders if he should rethink the plan, but shakes his head. There’s no need to find his survival instinct now. There’s no way to contact Coulson or the agency, no way to contact Natasha until she contacts him, and Bucky’s in danger - along with the whole world, apparently, so he guesses he’s going in. You’ve got to do what you can.

Wanda leads them, although her energy seems to ebb as they move, leading her brother to hover near her, eyeing every shadow as if a hellhound might lunge out of it.

The sky above them is still darkening with clouds blacker than Clint has ever seen, and he tries not to look up because it makes him feel like he’s falling into a black hole.

“Your partner and the other angels are moving, but they are being attacked,” Wanda says. “They will not be able to reach us quickly.” Her ability is useful, he’ll admit, but not exactly good for morale.

Clint tries not to think about Natasha facing a hellhound. He tells himself that if he managed to get out alive, she won’t have a problem. She’s a lot better at this kind of thing than Clint has ever been. He doesn’t know where she is, even if he could help, and she’d kill him for saving her rather than focusing on the real problem. She’s a pragmatist, is Nat; she’d never focus on the smaller problems when there’s something more urgent going on.

The place that Wanda leads them to is a flower shop. It looks bright and cheerful in spite of the darkness filling the rest of the world. The sign above the door announces the place as  _ Eden’s Blooms _ and Clint rolls his eyes. The windows are clouded and he can’t see into them.

Wanda grasps his arm as he steps forwards and holds him back.

“There are hellhounds,” she says.

“Guarding it?” Clint asks. “And Bucky hasn’t noticed?”

“He has noticed. He thinks they are trying to get in, when in reality they are there to convince him to stay in.” Wanda looks towards the shop and Clint sees shimmering ripples appear in the air in front of it, before fading away again. “The person he is talking to claims that the shield is keeping them at bay. In reality, it is nothing more than pretty lights.”

“I can’t see anything,” Pietro says.

“Yeah, they’re a bitch like that,” Clint tells him. “How many are there?”

“Two,” Wanda says. Clint winces, just one had been enough to almost take him out and while Wanda’s got it going on in the psychic department, neither she nor Pietro look like they’re up for a fight to the death. He pulls his gun from its holster and checks the magazine. He’s going to have to fill in a lot of ‘firearm discharged in line of duty’ forms later and explain how he fired at invisible dog monsters. Coulson’s going to love it.

“Can we draw them away?” Pietro says.

“I can…” Wanda tells him. “I believe I can intercept their commands.” Clint turns to look at her. Her face is tilted as though looking at something far away. “I didn’t try before, because if they knew I could hear them, they would have stopped talking. But I don’t think there is much left to learn.”

“Tapping into angel talk?” Clint says slowly. “Because that doesn’t sound dangerous at all. Literally  _ one _ of Bucky’s feathers incinerated two whole cows.” Clint says, thinking about the searing power that had been Steve freeing his soul from the hellhound poison. He can’t imagine that rerouting angelic communications is going to be much more pleasant.

“I can manage it,” she say with complete certainty before turning to her brother, who has crossed his arms over his chest, clearly displeased by his sister’s plan. “I’ll be fine,” she says.

“Are you sure about thi-” Clint starts, but she’s staring off into space again and her eyes start to glow. “Guess you’re sure,” he says. He turns to Pietro. “When she’s done with this, she’s going to need you to look after her. Get her off the streets and lock the doors. Stay inside until… well, until the apocalypse either happens or doesn’t happen, I guess.”

“I don’t need you to tell me to look after her,” Pietro says, glaring at Clint like this is his fault. Clint doesn’t point out that his sister is an adult who has clearly made her own decisions entirely ignoring Clint’s helpful advice.

Wanda’s eyes glow brighter and her mouth opens as she starts to speak words in a language Clint does not understand. It flows off her tongue in silver rivers of sound, ringing like bells. Clint wants to weep at the sound of it. Each syllable is clear in his mind, as though his ears are working perfectly - no, more like it’s bypassing them entirely.

“Here we go,” he mutters, more for something to say than for any good reason. He adjusts his gun in his hand, in case the hellhounds don’t listen to Wanda’s instructions.

Her eyes are glowing white hot now, so bright that Clint has to look away from her. She stumbles to one sided and Pietro catches her, holding her up as she continues to speak in that strange melodious language that sounds so beautiful it actually hurts to think about.

The volume rises until she’s shouting out words and Pietro’s knuckles go white where they’re clutching at her jacket. Wanda lifts her head, looks right at the hellhounds with her pure white eyes and shouts one last word before dropping like her strings have been cut, only held up by her brother’s arms.

“Go,” Clint says. Pietro doesn’t have to be told twice, he hefts Wanda in his arms and starts to run.

Clint can’t see the hellhounds, he can only trust that whatever Wanda did worked as he starts walking towards the flower shop, where he  _ really _ hopes Bucky is.

Each step feels like it takes an age. He listens as well as he can for the sound of heavy, hot breath and the clack of claws on tarmac, but it doesn’t come. He walks right up to the door, gun still in his hand, and stares at it, wondering what he does now.

In the absence of any better idea, he raises his free hand and knocks.


	5. Damned Lies

There is no response to Clint’s polite knock, so he contemplates kicking the door down. After a moment, he decides that might end up in him being fried to death by an evil angel, though; so in the end, he goes with trying to push the door open.

It swings open smoothly and a bell rings.

“You know, there’s an old film that says every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings,” he says, looking into the room. “Was always a bit worried about that, thought there must be a horrific overpopulation of angels out there.”

Bucky is standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by flowers, staring at Clint like he’s a ghost, and to one side of him, eyeing Clint suspiciously, is a guy who looks absolutely nothing like the Steve Clint saw in his dream.

“Hi,” Clint says. “Sorry to just barge in like this, but the sign did say you were open.” He turns round, letting the door swing shut, and flips the sign over so it says ‘closed’. “Might want to change that if you don’t want visitors.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, stepping forwards, although the dark stranger who is probably not Steve holds him back. “What are you doing here? I told you not to-”

“Yeah, you probably should have just wiped my memories instead of simply knocking me out,” Clint says. “I’ve never done well with people telling me what to do. Something about childhood trauma.” He waves a hand, then waves it again in greeting. “Hi, you must be Steve. You’re not as tall as I thought you’d be.” He pauses. “And for some reason, I thought you’d be blonde. I guess I just thought angels were blonde.”

“And yet, Bucky isn’t blonde,” Not-Steve says, smiling. If Clint wasn’t certain the guy was a dick, he’d probably think that smile was sincere. As it is, he tries very hard not to think about punching it off the guy’s face. Punching angels probably ends badly. His best play here is to try to convince Bucky that this guy’s the enemy, and that means staying alive long enough to do so.

“Why did you come?” Bucky asks, looking at him helplessly. “It’s not safe.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Clint says, with burning honesty, giving a sheepish little shrug.

“He’s not alone,” Not-Steve says. He looks Clint up and down and Clint knows that’s a hint of disappointment in his eyes as he takes in how very not mauled to death Clint is.“How did you get past the hellhounds?” he asks.

“Hellhounds?” Clint says, his face as surprised as he can make it. He turns to look outside, as though he could see them if he looked. “I didn’t… I just walked right up to the door.”

“That’s not possible,” Not-Steve says, and Clint allows himself a thrill of satisfaction at making the guy unsettled. And relief that Wanda’s intervention had apparently gone unnoticed for now. He doesn’t let it show on his face, though. Everything in this room is on a knife edge. On top of pretending he thinks Not-Steve is the good guy, he’s got to be very careful to keep out of his reach. If Not-Steve touches him, the jig is most definitely up. If he’s anything like Bucky, he’ll be able to read the lie in a heartbeat.

“Don’t know what to tell you, except I’m glad they seem to have ignored me,” Clint tells them. He lets his discomfort at the very idea of hellhounds show on his face and shudders a little. “Already got up close and personal with one of those things. It’s not exactly on my bucket list to do it again.”

Bucky walks over to him, his gait tight and furious and his eyes flashing with anger. It’s a little bit hot to have him bearing down on Clint like a force of nature, but not quite hot enough to distract Clint from why he’s really here. Convince Bucky that Not-Steve is a fraud. That’s step one, and everything else after that, he guesses they’re going to have to wing that. Heh… wing it.

“You need to go.”

“And leave you surrounded by hellhounds?” Clint asks. “I don’t think so.” He looks Bucky in the eye. “I can help.” He switches his gaze to Not-Steve over Bucky’s shoulder. “Really, I might not be an angel, but I’m good at my job, and you’re going to need all the help you can get to stop whatever’s happening out there. Have you seen the fucking sky?”

“Yes,” Not-Steve says, “Hydra seems to be gaining confidence. They must have some idea where the cube is. Are you sure you didn’t tell them anything, Buck?” The name sounds a bit awkward on the man’s tongue, although maybe that’s just Clint’s imagination, Bucky certainly doesn’t seem to notice. He’s looking at Not-Steve like he’s his saviour and it’s making Clint’s mouth taste all kinds of sour.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Bucky says, tearing a hand through his hair. “I swear, Steve. I don’t know how they could have learnt anything, because I don’t know!”

“You have to remember something, Buck,” Not-Steve says, crossing over to Bucky with this expression of fake-concern on his face that makes Clint sick. He rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and Clint wants to tear it off and demand he leave Bucky the fuck alone. But that would rather ruin everything he’s trying to do here,so he sticks his hand into his pocket instead, in an effort to remove temptation. “We need to get to it before they do, or they’ll destroy everything we’ve been trying to protect.”

Bucky is clutching at his hair with a death grip, and Clint rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe you’ve seen something while you’ve been down here,” Not-Steve says. “You were here for a week? Did you see anything suspicious, anything that didn’t seem right.”

Clint’s mind flashes back to a picture on a child’s bedroom wall. He tells his mind to stop working, because he can feel things clicking into place and he doesn’t want them to. He really doesn’t want them to.

But his mind, as usual, doesn’t listen to his common sense, and things start flicking through his brain.

Bucky had been falling. He’d been falling and he’d thrown the blue light - the cube - away. It had landed near the Hillmans’ house. The house where a couple lived with their three children and they claimed there hadn’t been an intruder that night, although there had been a phone call - made from their house - that said there was. A house where the son draws pictures of his family and sticks them on the wall.

Pictures of his family with a mother, a father and two children. Two children.

Why were there two children when there were three children in the family?

Why did Billy have a bedroom and Kate have a bedroom… but no one mentioned where that other little girl slept?

Clint doesn’t school his face enough, the revelation of how stupid he’s been is too big to contain and Not-Steve’s eyes fix on him as he’s trying to wipe the realisation off his face. Because he knows. He knows where the cube landed and he knows what it did, because it rewrites reality. The cube rewrites reality, so why couldn’t it have landed in a little boy’s bedroom and decided to become a child. And then, why wouldn’t it give itself a family to protect it and keep it safe. A scared little kid with the power to change the world on a whim.

Oh fuck… he was standing right there and he didn’t even know.

“What have you remembered?” Not-Steve asks, and there’s no point pretending Clint hasn’t thought of something, so he has to think quick. Bucky’s looking at him like he just saved the day, when actually his stupid brain just fucked them over.

“There was a snake,” he says, picking up the first thing that comes to mind. “It had two heads, might be a thing. Sounds like a reality bending sort of thing to me.”

Not-Steve looks at him, and Clint tries to look the most honest he has ever looked. He puts on his best expression of ‘I am an idiot human who thinks I am helping’. He’s not sure it’s convincing.

“A snake…” he says. “With two heads?”

“Yeah, freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. Do you think your cube thing could do that?” Bucky shakes his head, his hope fading.

“That doesn’t sound right,” he says. “I feel like it would be bigger than that.” He sits on a folding chair that’s set up in the corner, between a basket full of long stem roses and a bouquet that declares itself to be for ‘My Darling Brother’ and frowns again. “I just need to focus and try to remember.”

“Unless,” Not-Steve says, coming dangerously close to Clint, making him dodge away into a stand of many coloured carnations. “Agent Barton, you’ve investigated this town.”

“Uh, some of it,” Clint says. It’s getting more difficult to hide his discomfort with Not-Steve right up close to him. He can’t let the guy touch his skin. “My partner did some of it. I got a little distracted by Bucky.”

“Would you be willing - and I know this is a lot to ask -” Not-Steve says, swaying closer and closer to Clint, so he has to dart out of the way to avoid skin-to-skin contact. “You might not have realised what you were seeing and we are in an urgent situation. Hydra has shut this place off and the lives of everyone here are in danger. I could look inside your head and see if you’ve seen anything.”

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” Clint says. “Thanks, but no thanks, big guy. You don’t want to look in there, trust me. You’re an angel. You’d probably lose your halo.”

“Barton, I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of our situation,” Not-Steve says. He’s starting to lose his cool - which is good. If Clint can get Not-Steve to threaten him, maybe Bucky will question who the good guys are. It’s worth a shot.

“No, got it, very serious,” Clint says. “It’s just half the time I’m not comfortable having myself inside my own head, poking around, so I’m really not up for sharing time today. Sorry.” He smiles inanely with a quick shrug.

Not-Steve reaches out to try to grab him, but Clint side steps quickly, putting an array of what he thinks are peonies between them. He is running out of time and ideas. He looks over at Bucky, a little desperately, willing him to understand what’s really going on.

“Hey, watch it with the hands! Here on earth we have this thing called consent,  _ Steve _ .”

“Clint, it could help,” Bucky says, frowning, like he knows Clint’s trying to tell him something, but he can’t figure out what.

“Yes, Clint,” Not-Steve says, stalking towards him, every step full of malicious intent.

“No,” Clint says. “N O spells no. I do not give you consent for you to finger my brain. Better luck next time.”

“They could destroy the world,” Bucky says, but he’s looking at Not-Steve with a little crease of confusion on his face, like he realises there’s something wrong. Clint wants to cheer.

“I don’t need your permission,” Not-Steve says, and Clint turns to Bucky with what he hopes is a significant raise of his eyebrows. Bucky blinks at him, then looks at Steve.

“Steve, you can’t just…” he says.

“It’s the end of the world, Buck,” Not-Steve says. “I’m not sure the rules apply anymore. And one man to save the world seems a small price, right?”

“No,” Bucky says and Clint - who is now not taking his eyes off Not-Steve and his grabby mind-rapey hands - steps back so he can get him in sight. “That’s not… that’s not right,” Bucky says. “You’re not…”

“Bucky, this is bigger than one man, you’ve got to understand that,” Not-Steve says.

“Steve,” Bucky says, his voice hard and firm. “What was the last thing you said to me the last time I saw you? Before I took the cube, before I fell.”

Not-Steve turns to him.

“Bucky, what are you talking about.”

“I don’t remember much, but I remember that. I remember that we spoke, and I remember what you said to me. Do you?”

“I said…” Not-Steve looks towards Clint, who backs up a few more steps his hands finding the checkout counter behind him. “I said... I’d be with you to the end of the line.”

Bucky straightens up, and he looks more the part of an angel than he has in as long as Clint has known him.

“No… that’s not what you said,” Bucky tells him. “Step away from Clint.”

“Or what? You’re going to kill me?” Not-Steve says, giving up any pretence of nicety. “You’re so weak right now it’s pathetic. The mighty Winter Soldier limping on one wing and you don’t even remember how to access your power. It was easy to fool you. You didn’t even question it. A few sad looks, a few pats on the shoulder from Good Old Steve and you trusted me completely.”

He moves too fast for Clint to see and he’s suddenly behind him, wrapping an arm around his throat and pressing in with the threat of crushing. He shouldn’t be able to be there. Clint knows the counter was behind him, but apparently rules don’t apply to angels.

“You’ve got no way of stopping me,” Not-Steve says. “And now… let’s see what you’re hiding in that ape-brain of yours, human.”

When Bucky touches him, it feels like flying. When Not-Steve tears into his brain, Clint feels like he’s falling apart. There is no gentleness there, he just stabs right into the heart of what makes Clint and pulls it apart to look at it. He feels violated in a way he has never known, like something filthy is touching parts of him he didn’t even know existed, leaving trails of its dirt behind, marking him as unclean. The pain is immense. Different from anything he has ever felt before, and it cuts out all thought. There is nothing left but pain and sickness.

He throws up in his mouth, almost chokes on it as he falls forwards.

The sensation is gone, leaving behind only that feeling of an unclean ichor sticking to every part of him. Clint falls to his hands and knees, wretching onto the ground.

“Smarter than you look,” Not-Steve says, then he’s gone and arms are pulling Clint up into his arms and there are pale eyes looking down at him. Clint knows that face, but he can’t piece together who it is. He doesn’t know who he is. He can’t. Thoughts fracture as he thinks them, slipping away and disappearing into darkness. There are eyes looking down at him. He knows that face. The thought slips away. Something comes into view, he doesn’t know the name of it.

“Clint, Clint… are you with me?” the thing above him says. The thing that might be called Clint tries to speak, but he can’t remember what words are. He makes sounds, but everything is all jumbled in his head and they come out of his mouth wrong. Everything tastes disgusting, like evil. He didn’t know evil had a taste, but it does, and it’s in his mouth.

Bucky - Bucky, that’s the name he was looking for. He feels a touch and things start to make sense. Bucky is above him, and he’s touching the sides of Clint’s head, featherlight, and from where they touch, Clint feels a brightness, spreading warmth, pushing through him. It’s not the searing white purity that Steve - Steve, he remembers Steve - had used, but something gentle, almost golden, like the light that slants over you at sunrise when the world is golden and pink - he remembers sunrises… huh.

“Feels good…” he manages to slur out. The world is coming back to him, memories sliding together and into each other like jigsaws. Words regain their meaning.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Bucky says. “But you need to be whole again. Okay. It’s like with the cuts on your chest… just… deeper.”

Clint doesn’t care what it is, it feels like stepping into a bath that is absolutely the perfect temperature - with bubbles, and he sighs, leaning into Bucky’s chest for more contact, feeling the thud of his heartbeat through his ribcage.

Angels have hearts, who knew?

The golden feeling fills him up and expands inside him, expanding him as well, joining all the parts that Not-Steve tore apart and sticking them together with that golden glow.

Clint could have stayed there forever, but as he feels himself come together again, the world resolves around them from happy haze to the harshness of reality. He realises that they’re kneeling in a pool of his own vomit and that he just accidentally gave the secret of the apocalypse to an evil angel.

“That could have gone better,” he says, his throat harsh. Wobbling, they get to their feet, leaning on each other.

“Do you know where he went?” Bucky asks. “I have to stop him.”

“We have to stop him,” Clint says. “And yeah, I know, but you’ve got to let me come too.”

“He just ripped your soul to pieces right in front of me,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, that’s what it felt like,” Clint says. “But you put me back together again. And he seemed pretty sure you weren’t up to taking him alone, so I figure you and me together, maybe add up to some sort of halfway decent angel?”

Bucky looks at him.

“If I don’t let you come, you’ll find a way to get there on your own, won’t you.”

“Yep,” Clint says cheerfully. “I’m really difficult to get rid of once you’ve given me coffee. Should have warned you about that.”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “But you stay back and leave the heavy lifting to me, okay?”

“Aye aye sir,” Clint says with a grin.

“So where is he?”

“Hillman farm,” Clint says, giving a rough description of where it is. “The cube’s a little girl. The couple there think she’s their kid.”

“A child?” Bucky says, shocked.

“Yeah, guess the first thing it saw when it landed was a kid, so it…” he wiggles his fingers. “I talked to her the other day. She’s cute… you know, for a weapon of apocalyptic destruction. Wears her hair in pigtails.”

“That’s going to make this more complicated,” Bucky says. “Now… I think I can get us there, but he wasn’t wrong about my wings.”

“You remember?” Clint says.

“Not really, just… when I was healing you just now, I think I connected with something… I have access to it, but I don’t know how well it’s going to work.”

“Great, experimental angel flying,” Clint says. “Sign me up.”

Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and takes a deep breath before nodding to himself and clenching his eyes tight shut.

*

Flying, angel style, is a lot like a rollercoaster, Clint decides, although the view is different. There’s just… white, as far as the eye can see. If that’s what being an angel’s like, Clint reckons it must be pretty boring. He also thinks that if the angel you were flying with had both wings, then maybe it might involve less spinning, but that sort of adds to the fun.

It also adds to him feeling like he wants to throw up again, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s not like his mouth could taste any worse.

They land outside the Hillman Farm, dropping down as lightly as a feather, and Clint looks at the house, hoping none of the family have been hurt just because Clint couldn’t keep an angel from getting inside his head.

“You’re not to blame,” Bucky tells him, and Clint remembers that Bucky can read his emotions and winces. “I trusted the wrong person.”

“You had amnesia.”

“And I was too eager to have a friend,” Bucky says. “None of that matters now, though. We’re here and we’ve got to deal with what’s going on now, not kick ourselves for what happened then.”

“Right,” Clint agrees, pulling out his gun again. “So, how are we going to do this?” he asks.

“Bucky!” A voice shouts.

“Well there goes the element of surprise,” Clint comments, turning to see two men and a rather worse for wear Natasha standing at the other end of the yard. He recognises the tall blonde man as the one who had sat in his dream and called himself Steve, the man with the deep brown skin and the exasperated expression, he supposes, must be Sam.

“Steve?” Bucky asks. Steve rushes forwards.

“You remember?” Steve asks.

“No… just… if it wasn’t that guy, then maybe you really are you,” Bucky says with a bitter twist of his lip. “What’s the last thing you said to me before I started all this shit?”

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Steve says, giving him a pointed look.

“And what did I say to you?” Bucky asks.

“You told me that I was taking all the stupid with me,” Steve tells him. Bucky’s weary smile smooths out the furrows in his brows and he steps forward to accept Steve’s hug.

“Good to see you, man,” Sam says. “Next time you’re gonna steal a cosmic artefact of immense power and hide it to save the world, maybe clue us in?”

Bucky looks at him and opens his mouth, but Natasha cuts in.

“We know. You’re all idiots. Can we move on to the fact where the evil angel has the weapon that can destroy life as we know it?”

“Not yet, he doesn’t,” Bucky says. “If he had it, we wouldn’t all be standing here.”

“Comforting,” Clint says. “So… now it’s five against one, I’m liking the odds a bit better. Just one question really: does  _ anyone  _ have a plan? Because honestly, after ‘fly in to save the day’, mine was just ‘question mark, question mark, profit.’”

“We should surround the place,” Steve says, looking at the small house. “You said there are people in there.” He turns to Natasha.

“Two adults and three children,” she says.

“Two children,” Clint corrects. “... sort of. One of them’s a magic cube.” Everyone blinks at him. “It’s a long story.” Steve looks at Natasha again, who shrugs.

“I trust Clint’s judgement,” she says. “He’s got good instincts. Which is the cube?”

Clint feels a warm glow at Natasha’s immediate trust in his abilities.

“Little girl, white hair,” he says, she nods.

“So we go in from different angles,” Sam says. “Only two of us are going to be a match for him.”

“I’m guessing you two won’t stay outside,” Steve says, turning to Natasha and Clint, who both stare back at him, unamused. “Thought not. Sam, go high. I’ll go through the front. You three, stay low and enter from each different side. Don’t engage unless you have to, and make a noise that’s loud enough to alert the rest of us to your position.”

“Gun shots are pretty loud,” Natasha says.

“That they are,” Clint agrees.

Steve pulls Bucky aside to have a word with him - which gets pretty agitated judging by their body language - and Natasha sidles up next to Clint.

“So, he’s an angel,” she says.

“Fuck off,” Clint replies.

“I mean, I know I said you deserved better than that Marcus guy, but I didn’t think you’d actually try for an angel,” she says. “We’re going to have to talk about this, by the way.”

“I know,” Clint agrees. “This is going to make for a hell of a debrief, huh?”

“Just try not to die,” Natasha says. “If I have to explain this to Coulson on my own, I won’t be best pleased.”

“You’re just no fun,” Clint tells her as Steve and Bucky rejoin them.

“Everyone ready?” Steve asks. They all nod.

*

Clint takes the right, Natasha the left, and Bucky decides to go for the back.

The place is old, and living in the middle of nowhere hasn’t exactly made them upgrade their security, it takes Clint a little wiggle with his pen knife and the side window is unlatched and he climbs in as softly as he can.

When he turns around, the world is… not as he expected.

It’s the office. His and Nat’s office in The Pit.

He turns around, but the window is gone.

Al-right… he thinks. That’s not exactly a good sign. He draws in a breath and lets it out, re-evaluating the situation.

“Agent Barton,” a voice says, and Clint turns to see Coulson looking at him expectantly. “Has the wall done something in particular to offend you today?”

“Uh, no,” Clint says. “Not today. Are you real?”

“Very funny,” Coulson replies, his mouth a flat line. “I need that report in my inbox by the end of the day. No excuses this time. There is no cyberdog, and it didn’t eat your homework.”

“Right,” Clint says. “I’ll get that to you as soon as I can.” Coulson looks at him suspiciously, then sighs and heads back into his office, which is sitting right where it should. Clint can still see him through the vertical blinds that are drawn down around it.

“What the fuck?” he says, spinning round in a circle. He looks down at himself and is pleased to see that he is distinctly lacking in vomit, which is a plus, but that doesn’t explain how he climbed through a window in the Hillman House and ended up in his office two states over.

He walks over to Natasha’s desk. There’s a cup of coffee sitting there, still steaming, and her computer screen is locked, showing the picture of the tiger asking for bellyrubs that she always has and always claims that it’s actually luring the unworthy into a trap. It’s like she just locked her screen and stepped out for a moment.

On his desk, there’s even the giant rubber band ball he’s been making out of the office’s outdated stationery supplies. Who needs rubber bands these days?

A thought strikes him that maybe they were too late. Perhaps, while they were making plans in the yard, Not-Steve was already in there rewriting reality and now Clint really is back in his office as though nothing ever happened.

Except… why would he remember? It could be because Bucky did his magic thing and stuck him all together again, but that doesn't feel right. If reality had changed, then surely he would have been rewritten too. He doesn’t feel rewritten.

He pokes his desk; it feels pretty solid. Coulson is answering a phone call in his office, wearing his blandest expression, and Clint feels like he’s missing something, all over again.

Either this is a trap laid for him by Not-Steve, or this is his new reality and Clint’s just lucky enough to have not forgotten the old one. Maybe it’ll be like that film and he’ll be the only person who remembers the Beatles.

Or… and a third thought flies into his brain… or a scared little girl with phenomenal cosmic powers is trying to hide. He remembers the sort of wild fantasy worlds he’d thought up back when he was her age. If he’d had her sort of power then...

He goes over to Phil’s office and knocks on the door. Phil looks up at him as Clint cracks it open, flicking the mic on his headset to off.

“Hey,” Clint says.

“Did you want something, Agent Barton?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Clint knows this is going to sound stupid if he’s wrong, but if he’s wrong then he’s pretty much screwed anyway. “Phil, could you remind me what my job is again?” he asks. Phil frowns at him like he’s an idiot.

“Seriously, Barton? You’ve worked here for years. Your job is to solve mysteries and keep people safe.” He says it completely seriously.

“Right,” he says. “And if I walked out that door over there,” he points to the main office door. “Where does that lead?”

“You shouldn’t go out of the door, Agent Barton,” Coulson says.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s where the bad man is,” Coulson tells him.

“But if my job is to keep people safe,” Clint says slowly, “then shouldn’t I be out there protecting people from the bad man?”

Coulson blinks.

“You shouldn’t go out there,” he repeats.

“I think I have to,” Clint tells him. “Because that’s my job, right. And I’m good at my job.”

Coulson looks a little panicked, which is unnerving, because Clint’s never seen Coulson panicked. Ruffled, maybe, disgruntled, definitely, but never panicked.

“It was good to see you,” Clint says. “I’m going to go and do my job now, okay?”

Coulson stands up.

“You should take this,” he says, and holds out a battered old teddy bear with one arm. It’s clearly been hugged until it’s stuffing’s compacted into nothing and the little jacket it’s wearing is so washed out he can’t tell whether it was blue or black. Clint reaches out and takes it with a smile.

“He’ll protect you,” Coulson says.

“Thanks,” Clint says, turning the bear around so it can wave at Coulson. “See you later!”

Coulson crosses back over to his desk and sits down to return to his call, and Clint turns towards the door.

So he’s trapped in some seven-year-old’s nightmare world. It barely even registers on his weirdness scale right now. He was mindfucked by an angel less than an hour ago, this day has already gone way past crazy.

He puts his hand on the door handle and looks the bear in its shiny black eyes.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks it. There’s no response, but its eyes look distinctly unimpressed. “Yeah, me neither.”

The door swings open onto a hallway, an eerily familiar hallway, which makes sense. The office was taken from his mind, so why wouldn’t the hallway be too. He recognises it after a second and his blood runs cold. His foot hesitates where it hovers over the worn wooden floorboards.

Yeah, he knows this place, with the ‘bless our home’ cross stitch on the wall, right over the side table decorated with doilies and the little porcelain horse figurine that had shattered against the wall long ago. He clutches the teddy bear a little more tightly and looks around. This makes sense, he reminds himself. This is the sort of nightmare a little kid would understand, the monster in the dark who roars and rages and comes to hurt you. He stands up straighter. She’s picking things out of his brain to help make sense of it all. Maybe the others are getting treated to their own personal This Is Your Life extravaganza. He doesn’t know. But this is definitely his.

The footsteps on the stairs are louder than he remembers, and the whole hallway seems to shake with them. The porcelain horse rocks on the table with the vibrations, rat-a-tatting its ceramic hooves against the wood. Clint reminds himself that he’s a grown man and turns to the stairs, teddy bear clutched in both hands in front of him, like a shield. He’s not ready for this.

But it’s not his father who appears on the stairs. It’s his mother, smaller than he remembers her, slight, like a gust of wind could blow her away. Her expression, though, hasn't changed. Her eyes are wide and round, full of fear and regret. Clint’s throat seizes up. 

He’d never thought he’d see her again. Of course, it’s not really her, is it? It’s a replica of her, built from his memories and his fears, but she looks so alive. Tears prick at his eyes and he rubs them away.

If the cube could bring her back...

“You’ve got to hide, sweetheart,” she says. “He’s coming. He doesn’t want you here.”

“I’ve got to go upstairs,” Clint says, knowing instinctively that he’s right. What he needs to find is upstairs.

“He’s too strong for you,” she says, reaching up to touch his face and Clint tries not to be angry at a small child for bringing back this mockery of his mother.

“I’m grown up now, Mom,” he says gently. “It’s my turn to keep people safe.”

“He’ll hurt you,” she says.

“So what’s new?” Clint asks. “I’ve got to go upstairs, it’s my job.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she tells him. “We can do it differently this time.”

Clint’s perspective changes. It happens in the blink of an eye. He goes from looking down at his mother’s sad, worn face, to looking up. He’s not an adult any more. he’s looking up at his Mom and she’s smiling down at him, cupping his face, and his body feels young. The aches have gone; he feels fresher. Clint lifts his hand and he’s looking at a child’s hand.

“We can go away. I’ll take you and Barney away,” his mother is saying. “This time I’ll keep you safe. We just need to change one thing and we’ll all be safe.”

He starts to reach for her hand, which she’s holding out to him. She’s right. It could be different. He could have a normal life, grow up like any other kid: go to school, have friends, get a part time job rather than a circus act. It would be better this time. They’d be together, and he wouldn’t have to do any of the scary stuff. He could do archery properly, maybe. He’s good, good enough for a scholarship, maybe good enough for a career. He could win medals, travel the world.

He can see his life spreading out ahead of him, full of happy smiles and coming home to his Mom at Thanksgiving, arguing with Barney over who gets the remote. A proper family, like the ones he used to see. He knows, suddenly, that he could have that. It would be simple.

Clint reaches out.

He almost takes her hand, but it seems like the bear he is holding warms up in his grasp and with a jolt he remembers Natasha and Phil, and Bucky, and Simone who lives in the apartment underneath him who he looks out for, Grills who had the heart attack and who Clint spent ten minutes doing heart compressions, keeping him alive. He remembers a dozen people or more and all the other people he’s ever met as part of his job. People he’s helped. Kids he’s seen himself in and who he’s got out of bad situation. It’s like someone opens a door in his head and pours all the good things he’s ever done into him so he can remember them like they’re new.

And on top of all that, with a bitter grief, he remembers his Mom’s funeral, and he knows that the person he saw in that other life, it’s not him. He’s made up of all his bad ideas and all his good ideas and all his memories and if he rewrites all of that...

“That’s not how it works, Mom,” he says. “It’s already happened.”

“But it doesn’t need to have happened,” she says. “You keep other people safe, let me keep you safe, honey. Please.”

“I’ve got to go upstairs, Mom,” he says, his voice is a child’s voice, but it’s determined.

She tries to push him away, her hands stronger than they should be, but Clint takes her wrist and moves her to the side.

“And I’ve got this guy to protect me,” he says, holding up the teddy bear. He gives her a reassuring smile, memorising the lines of her face greedily, and knowing that he’ll remember that other her - the happy life he’d been shown - forever. “It’s gonna be okay. But you’re gone, and I like my life. I wish you were still alive, but what does that change? I’ve done good things. I’ve saved people. If I went with you, what would happen to those people?”

“Why do you care?” she asks. “They’ll be fine. We can be together, baby. You, me, and your brother, like you used to dream about.”

“I care because… because those people matter,” Clint says. “I helped them, Mom. Dad said I’d never be anything, but he was wrong. I’ve saved people and maybe things would be better for everyone if you’d taken us and run. Maybe. But I can’t know that, and what if things are worse? What if people get hurt because I wanted you back? I’ve done some fu- messed up things in my life, but you’ve got to make the best of what you’ve got. Right? That’s what you always said. Take what you’ve got and make it the best it can be.”

“He’ll kill you,” his mother says.

“Nah,” Clint tells her, though he’s not as certain as he sounds. “I can take him.”

He watches as his mother fades out of existence, and tears roll down his cheeks. The bear stares up at him with glossy black eyes, but Clint thinks that maybe they look a bit sad.

“Thanks,” he says to it, and he sets off up the stairs.

He’s still kid-shaped, and it takes him a while to get used to how big the steps suddenly are again. His knees are scraped, he notices, like he’s been climbing trees and he almost smiles at the memories that brings up, until he remembers the fear that always followed. His father hadn’t liked it when he climbed the trees. His father hadn’t liked anything Clint did a whole lot.

The landing is just like he remembers it, too, wooden doors and floral wallpaper, all very neat. Barney’s door has a sign on with his name, Clint’s door has a picture of a dog. He reaches up to stroke his fingers along its back. He’d always wanted a dog, he remembers, but after he’d been caught petting one of next door’s, the picture had been ripped right off his door.

Barney’s door swings open and his brother creeps out, red hair a mess, eyes wide. He’s nine years old again, shaggy around the edges and more grown up than any nine year old should ever be.

“I don’t know what you did, Clint, but you made him real mad this time,” Barney says. “Why can’t you just shut your mouth sometimes, huh?”

“Sorry Barney,” Clint says automatically.

“Yeah, you will be if he gets hold of you. What are you doing out here? He’ll catch you for sure if you don’t hide.”

“I was just going into my room,” Clint says.

“No, you should come in mine,” Barney says, pulling at Clint’s arm. He looks down at the teddy bear as if seeing it for the first time. “And you’re really for it if he catches you with that. Teddy bears are for little kids, you know what he’ll say.”

Yeah, Clint knows. Clint knows intimately, but he refuses to let go of the bear as Barney tries to pull it from his hand.

“Why don’t you want me to go into my room, Barney?” Clint asks.

“Because he’ll find you,” Barney says.

“Then I guess he’ll find me,” Clint tells him, pulling his arm out of Barney’s grasp. “I’m gonna go into my room now, Barney.”

“No,” Barney says. “You can’t. He’s coming!”

“Barney,” Clint says. “You should hide. I can take care of myself.”

“No you can’t,” Barney tells him.

“Yes,” Clint says, taking a deep breath. “I can.”

He puts his hand on the handle of his door and turns it. Barney doesn’t try to stop him, just watches as he swings it open.

The room on the other side is not his childhood room. It is small and bright and colourful, and the walls are decorated with pictures that might have been drawn by a little boy with a love of crayons. There’s a video game console in the corner and a duvet covered in rockets is neatly laid out over the bed. Clint steps in and closes the door behind him and looks around.

If he were a small child who was hiding from a scary monster, where would he go? He crosses over to the cupboard and opens the door, but there is nothing in there but clothes and boxes of lego.

He turns around in a circle and thinks again, before walking over to the bed and crouching down. A small, scared face, surrounded by white hair, looks back at him.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m here to keep you safe. Do you remember me?” She nods and moves back, gesturing for Clint to join her under the bed. So he does. “Hey, I don’t think you ever told me your name.”

“Kobik,” she says.

“That’s a nice name,” he tells her. “I brought you something, Kobik,” he says and he holds out the bear.

“Bucky bear!” she says, grabbing it and hugging it to her chest. Clint blinks and allows his brain time to digest that information.

“Bucky bear?” he says. She nods fervently.

“Billy gave him to me,” she says. “He said that he fights monsters, so I called him Bucky because Bucky keeps me safe.”

“Right,” Clint says, that makes sense. She must remember at least something from before she turned herself into a kid, though. “Now, I know you’re scared, but do you know where my friends are?” he asks. Her eyes go wide.

“Which friends?” she asks.

“Natasha, Bucky, Steve, and Sam,” Clint says. “They came in here to help you, but I haven’t seen them. Do you know where they are?”

“Bucky’s here,” she says, holding out the teddy bear, and Clint winces.

“I meant the other Bucky,” he says, and she frowns in obvious confusion. 

“Natasha’s in the naughty place,” she says. “She had a tantrum.”

Clint can’t imagine Natasha having a tantrum, and he’s willing to bet that wherever the naughty place is, she doesn’t like it.

“Okay, do you think you could let her out of the naughty place so she can come here and help us?” he asks.

“No,” Kobik says.

“Okay then…” Clint ducks his head, running his hand over it and banging his elbow against the underside of the bed. “What about Steve and Sam?”

“They want to hurt me,” she says.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he tells her.

“They think I’m too dangerous and I shouldn’t exist,” she says and… okay, yeah, Clint can see that. The power to alter reality is a pretty fucking neat trick and it could go horribly, terribly wrong, especially in the wrong hands, but he hopes that angels aren’t going to kill a little girl. It’s probably best not to argue with her, though.

The footsteps come again and the world starts to shake. Kobik lets out a little meep of fright and buries her face in the back of Bucky Bear’s head. Clint is out of ideas.

“Could you… get rid of the bad man?” he asks carefully and she looks up, eyes wide, shaking her head. “Okay…” he says. “Why not?”

“He’s always there,” she says. “No matter what I do, there’s always a bad man.” And yeah, that makes sense. There’s always going to be someone who wants that sort of power for themselves.

“So what do we do?” he asks and she holds out Bucky Bear.

“I don’t think your teddy bear’s our best bet, kid,” he says. The whole floor beneath them is shaking as the footsteps get closer and closer. “I’d love to believe he can hold off an angry angel hell bent on destroying the world, but-” He pauses, because he’s missing the obvious here - again. Natasha would be so fucking pissed at him.

Because it doesn’t matter what he believes, it matters what  _ Kobik _ believes, and if she believes her teddy bear can save the day then, well, maybe it can.

“Okay,” he says. “So here’s what we’re going to do.”

Kobik listens very carefully and nods, her eyes wide as the footsteps get closer and closer to where they are hiding. Shaking the room and sending video game boxes tumbling onto the floor in avalanches.

The door is flung open with a bang, and Clint can see two huge black feet, surrounded by a cloud of shadow that sucks the light from wherever it touches.

He swallows, and hopes that he’s not being an idiot, then he rolls out from under the bed and stands up.

The figure stands eight feet tall, made of shadow and rage. Its eyes burn with fury and huge, smokey black wings spread out on either side of it.

“The mortal,” it says, in a voice of thunder and earthquakes. “I see he stuck you back together, how sweet. A pity his hard work was for nothing, seeing as this time I won’t leave pieces big enough for him to find.” Clint grits his teeth and tells himself it’s fine. He’s got a reality warping magic cube on his side, angels are easy.

“Where is the cube?” the angel asks.

“Not here, sorry. Your princess is in a different castle,” Clint says with a shrug and a grin. “Nice playing with you though, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” He hopes that Kobik isn’t too scared to do her part. He hopes that she can hold her ground and wait. Clint’s got the easy part, after all, he just has to be annoying. It’s the part he was born to play.

Clin steps back towards the window, casting a glance at it as though he’s judging the distance.

“You think you can escape?” the angel asks, his voice is the sound of an inferno raging. In a heartbeat, he is right up to Clint. “I took the information from you once, human, I will take it again, and he lifts one hand, its shadowy fingers longer than they should be, reaching for his face.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU MEANIE!” Kobik screams, which wasn’t in the script, but Clint’s got to give her full points for delivery. The angel turns.

“There you are,” it says. Clint looks past him to see Kobik holding up her teddy bear like a talisman between them. “I’ve come to take you home, child.”

“No!” She says. “You’re mean and I’m not going with you!” she says, stamping her feet.

“You won’t have to live here in this horrible world anymore,” the angel says. He doesn’t lunge at Kobik, clearly not wanting to make her do anything rash. “If you come with me, we can make it so much better.”

“No,” she shouts again. “I’m not going with you!” And she throws the bear.

This is the part that Clint isn’t really sure about. Usually he’s all about ranged weaponry, but stuffed bear isn’t your usual ammunition. He just hopes that he’s right about Kobik’s power of belief right now, because if he isn’t, he just bet the world and lost. Maybe the angel won’t get Kobik, but Clint’s not sure that whatever she does in fear won’t be worse.

The bear spins through the air. For a second Clint thinks they’ve failed. It’s just a teddy bear after all.

But as it spins, it starts to glow, brighter and brighter. There hadn’t been much distance between them when Kobik started to throw, but it seems to stretch as the bear flies.

The light gets so bright, Clint has to cover his eyes, and still it sears through his eyelids and his hand. Its heat is intense, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels like… sunshine. Clint can’t help but grin.

As the light fades, he straightens up again, opening his eyes and blinking away the bright blocks of colour across his vision.

Bucky as an angel is really fucking beautiful.

His wings are huge and black and they fill the room, which seems to stretch to accommodate them, walls bulging out. They flare up behind him in obvious threat, his face is set firm and deadly, and he’s carrying a gun - which isn’t what Clint would have expected an angel to carry, but he guesses that’s what happens if you get a kid who’s only really known small town America to arm an angel. Whatever works.

Bucky’s also glowing, like straight up glowing with righteous fury, and his light is cutting into the shadows, burning them away until the figure in front of Clint is just that same Not-Steve man he met in the flower shop.

“Hi,” Bucky says, then he shoots the angel through the head.

“Huh,” Clint says, looking down at the body and scratching his hand over the back of his head. “I mean your badass lines could do with a little work ‘hi’ doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of men, but the light show was pretty dramatic.”

“Clint,” Bucky says. “Why are you a kid?”

“Why were you a bear?” Clint asks. “Ask the kid.”

Bucky turns to Kobik and kneels down as she runs to wrap her arms around his neck. It’s sweet the way his wings sort of hug her back, too,

“Hi Bucky,” she says, looking a little shy.

“Hi Kobik,” Bucky says. “Are you okay?” She nods.

“Clint kept me safe,” she says. Bucky turns a warm smile towards Clint for a second before turning back to Kobik, tugging gently at one of her pigtails.

“That’s good, I’m glad you’re okay, but could you put everything back how it was again now?”

“Do I have to?” she asks, with the same petulant tone as seven-year-olds everywhere.

“I think it’s best,” Bucky says.

“But I like Clint being small - he can play with me,” she says.

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to be big,” Bucky tells her.

“What about the other ones - in the basement?” she asks. Bucky turns to Clint.

  
“I think she means Sam and Steve,” he says. “She thinks they want to…” he draws a finger over his throat and Bucky’s eyebrows go up.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he says to Kobik with fierce determination. “I won’t let them.”

“Promise?” she asks.

“I promise,” he assures her.

She looks at him for a long second, clearly trying to judge how truthful he’s being, then nods. Between one thought and another, Clint is normal-sized again, dressed in his old clothes.

“Thanks Kobik,” he says, giving her a little wave.

“And you need to put this family back how you found them as well,” Bucky says. Kobik pouts, but she nods again and Clint watches as some of the pictures disappear from the walls.

Natasha, Steve and Sam all rush through the door at the same time and Kobik hides behind Bucky’s legs as he faces them.

“Buck!” Steve says.

“Right,” Sam says throwing his hands up. “Because we had to spend the last hour down in the basement while he gets to hang out in the kid’s room and save the day,” Sam says. As he’s speaking, Natasha eyes Kobik carefully and gives her a wide berth as she walks towards Clint.

“Should I ask?” she asks.

“It’ll all be in my report,” Clint assures her. “I’m sure Coulson’s going to love it.”

“Just don’t describe the bad guy as a ‘dick of epic proportions’ this time, and you might not even have to rewrite it,” she says.

On the other side of the room, Steve crouches down to Kobik’s level.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t realise you were alive. If I had, I never would have suggested it, I promise.”

Kobik doesn’t seem convinced, but Steve and Sam aren’t wiped from existence, so Clint’s going to assume she’s okay with them.

“What are…” a voice starts. “What are all you people doing in my house?” Ah, Mrs Hillman then. Natasha steps forwards.

“FBI, ma’am,” she says. “We had a missing child, but it seems like she’s been located. She waves towards Kobik, her smile bland. It’s the one she always uses for telling disgruntled onlookers ‘thank you for helping us by backing the fuck off’.

“Oh… oh,” the woman says, looking at Kobik like she’s never seen her before. “Right well… you still should have knocked before entering. We keep a gun on the premises you know, we’d have been within our rights to shoot you for trespassing!”

“Sorry ma’am, we were worried she might be in danger,” Natasha says.

They are all shuffled out of the Hillman house quickly and this time there is no offer of sweet tea and cookies, much to Clint’s dismay.

Mrs Hillman doesn’t seem to notice that Bucky has huge black wings sticking out of his back, or if she does, she’s too polite to comment.

“We need to return home,” Steve says, reaching out to shake Natasha’s hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she says.

Clint sticks his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Bucky, who is still sort of glowing, and still very beautiful.

“Guess this is goodbye, then,” he says, and Bucky, who’s holding a very curious Kobik on his hip, shuffles a bit awkwardly, too.

“Yeah,” he says. “Clint, I-”

“I’m glad you got your memories back,” Clint says. “And your wing… and also that the world didn’t end. Really glad about that one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I-”

“Try not to… fall out of the sky again, okay?” Clint goes on. “Seems like it’s not a good idea.”

“Not really,” Bucky says. “Look, I-”

“We have to go,” Steve says, his voice cutting through whatever Bucky is trying to say. “Buck, are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says again, staring at Clint like he’s trying to push his thoughts directly into Clint’s mind. Maybe he can even do that, now he’s a full angel again. “Clint, I…” He sighs and looks at Kobik, then back at Clint. “Try not to die, okay?”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Natasha promises, watching proceedings with an annoying air of amusement.

“Good,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry for…” he shrugs.

“What do you mean?” Clint asks with feigned good humour. “This is going to be the best report I’ve ever written. Coulson’s going to sigh and say ‘Agent Barton, please maintain your professional objectivity’ so many times!” Clint gives the double thumbs up, which is a sure sign that he’s losing it.

“Buck?” Steve calls again and Bucky sighs once more.

“Thank you,” he says with a nod before turning to walk over to Steve.

They’re there one second and gone the next, like they’d never been there at all.

“This is going to be difficult to explain,” Clint says with a sigh, trying not to feel like he’s just lost something. They saved the world, he should be happy.

Natasha puts her arm around his waist and pulls him close.

“I’m thinking maybe we don’t mention the little girl who can rewrite reality,” she says. “I’m not sure the FBI is really ready for that information.”

  
“So we just leave in all the cool angel vs angel stuff, and how I saved the world by being awesome,” Clint says.

“Right - and where were you exactly while I was fighting invisible hellhounds?” she asks.

“Holding off an evil angel single handed… well, almost single handed,” Clint says. She looks at him, unimpressed. “Fine, you were badass, too,” he allows. “But you’re always badass. Can I get a little love just this once?” His voice cracks a bit and Natasha pretends not to notice, though her arm tightens around him.

Of course, they’re way outside of town and, having come by angel air, they don’t exactly have transportation.

It’s a few minutes before Clint spies a silver van driving towards them and sticks up his thumb.

It draws to a stop and the window winds down to reveal a familiar pair of eyes looking back at him from beneath a woollen beanie and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

“Well fuck me,” Darcy declares, “if it isn’t the mysterious G-men. What happened to you?”

“Celestial war,” Natasha says.

“Crazy dreamscape of my own nightmares,” Clint adds. “Could we get a lift back to town?”

“Sure, I need to pick up Jane and Erik anyway. Apparently there’s some sort of meteor shower down in Georgia we need to check out. You heading there next?”

Clint and Natasha share a look.

“Think we might give that one a miss,” Clint says, opening the door to slide in. Darcy frowns, sniffing the air before looking down at Clint’s pants.

“Uh… is that vomit?” 

  
  



	6. Fairytales

Three months and Clint’s still dealing with the aftershocks. The nightmares, he’d expected, but sometimes they disappear with a glow of bright gold sunlight and he wakes reaching for someone who isn’t there.

He tells himself it’s his imagination. Bucky’s got better things to do than guard his sleep.

It’s not possible to stop thinking about him, though. Clint guesses it makes sense that an angel would leave an impression on you, although it seems like none of them left an impression on the town. When they’d arrived back at the Pit, Coulson hadn’t even known that they’d been away. He’d listened, his face growing more and more pinched, as they told him about what had happened - with the notable exception of Kobik - and then been very quiet for a minute. They  _ had _ had to write up reports, though, to Clint’s chagrin, but no one’s ever going to believe them. Luckily no one bothers reading the reports that come out of the Pit anyway.

Then it was back to the usual daily grind. A statue bleeding over here, a girl who said she’d turned into a cat over there (she got better), nothing with any substance to it. Just the usual bunch of rumours and speculation, tied together with tabloid headlines.

So, three months, and nothing’s changed and there’s no sign of the world ending, or changing, apart from the sudden lack of any sign that Bucky and Kobik ever existed. Then, if the world had changed, Clint probably wouldn’t know about it in the first place.

Maybe the worlds’ been rewritten a thousand times since then and he just hasn’t noticed. It’s the kind of thought he doesn’t let himself think, because in the end, it doesn’t matter anyway. You’ve got to take things at face value or the paranoia will drive you mad.

Three months, and then he gets a phone call.

“Agent Barton,” a voice says from the other end of the line. It’s not a voice he ever thought he’d hear again. And he has to admit that hearing it now makes him a little worried.

“Wanda Maximoff,” he replies, looking over at Nat, who catches his eye and freezes at the name. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve got an address I think you should visit,” Wanda says. “You might be interested in what you find there.” She rattles out an address that’s not very far away.

“And you can’t tell me more than that?” Clint asks.

“Not if I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” she says, but she doesn’t hang up, and neither does Clint. There’s a question hanging on the tip of his tongue.

“You… remember it, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Wanda says. “I remember. I’m glad you managed to work it all out in the end.”

“Me too.”

“But you should definitely check out that address,” she tells him. “Good luck, Agent Barton.” And then she’s gone.

Clint looks at the address he’s scribbled down. It’s not far away, maybe an hour’s drive. He could be there and back before dinner time. He looks up at Natasha.

“I’ll tell him you’re tracking an anonymous tip off,” she says. “But you owe me for this.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” he tells her, grabbing his coat.

“You’ll buy me the bottle,” she corrects.

*

It’s an apartment block, pretty nice, too. On the higher end of the budget, though not into the kind of level that has a doorman. Clint pulls up outside and heads over to the door, checking the number on the post-it note he’s stuck to his palm, 6B. He finds the buzzer, with a sticker next to it reading ‘J Barnes’. He presses the button.

“Yeah? A voice says through the intercom. It’s crackly, but Clint recognises that voice. Even through his aids and through the intercom he recognises that voice.

“Bucky?” he asks. There is a moment of startled silence.

“Clint?” Bucky responds.

“Uh… Can I come up?” Clint asks.

The door buzzes open and he’s inside within a heartbeat.

The elevator moves too slowly, and Clint’s buzzing with energy all of a sudden, energy and questions. How - mostly ‘how’. But there’s at least a little ‘why’ and a healthy dollop of ‘what the fuck’, because that’s just a classic.

Bucky’s back. Clint hadn’t even thought about it being a possibility, because the guy’s an  _ angel _ , of course he wouldn’t bother coming back down to earth to slum it with the mortal schlubs when he’s got all of heaven at his fingers. Why would he ever want to talk to Clint again now he knows who he really is? Although it hadn’t been Bucky that contacted him, it had been Wanda, so maybe Bucky  _ doesn’t _ want to talk to him. But then… he’d just buzzed him up, so surely he can’t be  _ against _ talking to Clint. 

None of it makes sense, and Clint’s not sure his head isn’t about to explode from all the questions inside it.

He gets off on the sixth floor and walks up to the blue door with the shiny metal 6B screwed onto it. He lifts his hand, drops it back down again, adjusts his tie, and lifts his hand again. He scrubs one hand over his hair, then realises that he’s messed it up and tries to smooth it down, then remembers that his hair looks really weird when he flattens it down and tries to rough it up just enough to look good.

Then he knocks.

  
The door swings open before his hand can hit the painted wood for the second time, revealing…

“Kobik?” Clint says.

“Clint!” she cries, throwing herself at his legs. Clint blinks and pats her on the head. That was not what he was expecting, but… sure, okay. It’s Kobik. Bucky walks up behind her, looking exactly like Clint remembers, except he doesn’t remember him wearing a frilly apron.

“It’s a housewarming gift from Sam,” Bucky says, following Clint’s line of sight.

“Right. Housewarming… because you have an apartment now… with Kobik…” Clint says. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Did you fall again? Because I didn’t see any meteor strikes on the news and-”

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m still an angel,” he steps aside for Clint to come in, and Clint hobbles in as best he can with a small child attached to him. As Bucky shuts the door behind him, Kobik finally releases him.

“You came!” she says.

“Yeah, I did,” Clint tells her. “It’s good to see you, Kobik.” She grins.

“Kobik,” Bucky says, his voice firm. “Did you bring Clint here?”

“No,” she protests. “Not really!”

Bucky rubs his fingers against his temple.

“I really didn’t,” she says. “I just told Wanda where we were and  _ she _ told Clint. I didn’t even have to change anything, because Wanda’s magic, so she can hear me.”

“That’s…” Bucky sighs.

“Pretty sure that’s what we call a loophole and you’re going to be a terrifying lawyer when you’re older,” Clint tells her, when it seems like Bucky’s out of words.

“Okay,” Kobik says, clearly not caring at all. “I’m going to go and play in my room now so you two can do grown up talking.” She nods and then skips off.

“Uh…” Clint says and he catches Bucky’s eye. They stare at each other for a long moment and then laugh. “Well, she seems happy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “She didn’t want to go back to being a cube.”

“Imagine that,” Clint mutters.

  
“And there’s not really much to do in heaven for a kid, so we kind of all agreed that she could come and do the human thing for a while.” Bucky shrugs. “And since I’m the one she likes most.”

“You’re an angel-dad now,” Clint says. “Congrats! I’d have brought a bottle, if I knew.”

“You didn’t?” Bucky asks.

“Wanda just gave me your address and told me to check it out. I thought she’d given me a case or something.” He grins, looking around. Through the kitchen door, he can see a brightly coloured magnet sticking a drawing to the fridge. The bookcase to the other side of him has a load of children’s books on it as well as a collection of well worn sci-fi novels. Beyond that, the hallway leads into a living room that has a decidedly lived in air to it. It’s a nice place.

“I didn’t know if I should call,” Bucky says.

“You were going to call?” Clint asks, startled. “I mean… you’re all holy again, now. Why would you… call?”

“So I could talk to you,” Bucky says slowly.

“Well, yes, that, I guess,” Clint says.

“You wanna go through?” Bucky asks, pointing to the kitchen. “I don’t want to burn the onions.”

Clint mouths ‘burn the onions’ to himself as he walks into the kitchen. It’s a bit of a mess, but the smell of frying onions makes his mouth water.

“So…” he says, unable to find the words.

“So,” Bucky echoes. “I wanted to say something, back then, but you kept interrupting me and Steve was on my case about leaving, and Kobik was… I didn’t want to say something in front of her that might make her… y’know.”

“Alter reality to please you,” Clint says.

“Yeah, that,” Bucky points at him with a spatula. “So I didn’t say anything and I regretted it.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Clint says.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ve noticed that.” Bucky glares at the onions he’s stirring.

“And Kobik’s in her room,” Clint adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky says again.

“So you can say-”

“Yeah, okay!” Bucky says. “I’m just trying to find the words, alright. Give me a moment.” Clint holds up his hands and sits down on the plastic stool in the corner, watching Bucky frown to himself as he adds garlic.

Excellent. The angel can cook. Be still Clint’s beating heart.

No, really, it needs to slow the fuck down because he refuses to have a heart attack right now.

“You get the stupidest ideas in your head,” Bucky says after a moment and Clint makes a startled noise, because that’s not what he was expecting. “No, just… listen, okay. You’re an idiot, but you’re really smart, and you seem to think that just because I’m not… exactly human… that I’m too good for you or something.”

“You’re  _ literally _ an angel,” Clint says. “Pretty sure that’s out of anyone’s league.”

“Humans are so stupid,” Bucky says. “That’s all bullshit, you know that right?”

“Are you allowed to swear?” Clint asks. “Because that doesn’t seem very angelic.”

“I’m blending in,” Bucky says. “Stop changing the subject when I’m trying to work out how to ask you to kiss me.”

Clint’s mouth opens and closes a few times.

“You could try… asking,” he suggests.

Bucky turns to him, hooking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from his ponytail behind his ear.

“You wanna kiss me?” he asks.

“Definitely,” Clint says, standing up and crossing over to where Bucky’s standing by the stove.

In the end, it’s Bucky that kisses him, getting impatient as Clint stares at him dumbly for a second, a little hypnotised by the colour of his eyes and the fact that this is apparently real. It’s soft and gentle and brief, flooded with relief and fizzing happiness, before Bucky pulls and smiles at him.

“You wanna maybe keep doing that… indefinitely?” Bucky asks, smirking like he already knows the answer, which he does, because if Clint can feel the bubbles of Bucky’s happiness coming through where their hands are still lightly touching, then Bucky can definitely feel Clint’s.

“Like constantly?” Clint asks, darting in to kiss him again, long and lingering this time, a new depth to the emotions undercutting the froth of happiness. “Because we might need to stop for food… and sleep… and you have a kid now.” Bucky pulls him back in, this time taking his time, dragging it out so that Clint’s practically vibrating with the sensation of it. It’s full of feeling, softer than desire and deeper than need, and there’s a hint of that warmth that Clint remembers, the sunshine golden feeling that he’s dreamt of. It floats inside him and sings out as it finds something in Bucky that resonates back.

“Did Kobik rewrite reality for this?” Clint asks.

“She didn’t rewrite me, or you,” Bucky says. “She changed a few things so we could live here, but she didn’t change anything in the past. I swear.”

“That’s weird,” Clint tells him, pulling their hips flush together and swallowing Bucky’s laugh with another eager kiss. “Because this doesn’t feel real.” He’s high off the mix of their shared emotions that’s just echoing between them, getting stronger and stronger.   
  


“It’s definitely real,” Bucky says, and as if to emphasise that point, the smoke alarm over their heads goes off as the onions start to burn.

Clint pulls away to waft at it with his jacket and Bucky salvages the onions. Luckily it doesn’t get to the official apartment alarm or they’d all be out on the street waiting for the all clear. 

“You want to stay for dinner?” Bucky asks. “That’s a human thing, right? Dinner dates?”

“Yeah, that’s a human thing,” Clint agrees, grinning madly at him. “What are you making anyway?”

“This was going to be pizza sauce,” Bucky says with a frown. “Before you distracted me.”

The angel makes pizza. Clint never had a chance.


End file.
